


Sutures

by mrhd



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23881696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhd/pseuds/mrhd
Summary: Jaskier is seriously wounded helping Geralt bring Ciri to Kaer Morhen. Geralt hangs on to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 174
Kudos: 1196
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geraskier, Just.... So cute...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [BlossomsintheMist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist) for listening to me and helping me out!

Jaskier doesn’t actually feel the sword slice him. He’s too focused on trying to dodge it, ending up falling backwards on his ass, a fall that hurts way too much.

The Nilfgaardian soldier advances on him but Jaskier stabs up, quick and firm, like Geralt has taught him, right through the gap in the armor on the side. He pulls the dagger out with a spray of blood and gore, and only then does sound trickle back in, Ciri screaming at the forefront.

“I’m fine,” he tries to tell her, except when he inhales the pain almost makes him black out.

“No, no, no,” Ciri is saying, kneeling at his side, hands fluttering over the mess of blood that used to be his stomach. “Geralt!” she screeches.

Geralt, about seven feet away and dealing with four soldiers of his own, throws himself out of the fray, flipping over himself, taking out one of the soldiers at the knees as he does. He moves fast, literally leaving the soldiers in his dust as he sprints his way over to them. Geralt slides to a stop and Jaskier assumes his eyes would be wide as he looks at the mess of Jaskier’s stomach, if he hadn’t taken a potion a few minutes ago. 

“Fuck,” he says eloquently.

A Nilfgaardian tries to press his advantage over a distracted Geralt, but it doesn’t work: Geralt swings his sword back almost lazily, gutting the man.

It’s probably what the other soldier was trying to do to Jaskier. The thought makes him feel vaguely like he might be sick. Vaguely, because mostly all he feels is deep, all-consuming pain.

“Put pressure on the wound,” Geralt tells Ciri.

She does, tears streaking down her face.

Geralt makes a quick downward sign and the ground around Jaskier and Ciri glows purple. “It’ll slow anyone who approaches you,” he grunts, as the other Nilfgaardians advance. “Yell for me if anyone gets close.” Then he’s off, sword clanging, keeping the soldiers from Jaskier and Ciri.

It’s sweet, but obviously not going to be enough. Jaskier is aware enough to know that if Ciri takes her hands off of him he’s likely to bleed to death rather quickly. But he also knows that their best chance is for Ciri to run for Kaer Morhen, get the other witchers if they’re not already on their way, and let Geralt fight without needing to protect them.

Talking still seems like an impossible task, but he’s able to weakly lift an arm and push at Ciri’s where they’re pressing over his wound, hoping it gets the point across.

It seems to, because Ciri’s head snaps toward him, a glare on her face, as she says, “No.”

Jaskier tries to smile at her reassuringly, but he doubts it works. Whatever expression crosses his face Ciri ignores, her features stubborn and determined.

She looks a lot like her grandmother, Jaskier realizes woozily.

A yell snaps their attention from each other to the battle raging between Geralt and the four Nilfgaardians, four who are now three, because the fourth is twitching on the ground, his throat slit open.

But one of his fellows has managed to drive one of his blades into Geralt’s shin.

Geralt growls, something primal and scary, before simply plucking the blade out of his own leg and using it to slice its owner’s face off.

“Ow,” Jaskier tries to say, both as a joke, and because the pain is starting to make him lightheaded.

Ciri’s eyes snap back to him. “It’ll be okay,” she says, like she’s willing it to be so.

But it won’t be, because it’s clear that even though Geralt seems determined to ignore the wound in his leg, it’s still a wound, slowing him down, the leg wobbling underneath him.

It earns him a sword to the shoulder, perilously close to his neck.

“Ciri,” Jaskier groans, trying to push at her hands again. His arms slip, weak, both their skin slick with a great deal of blood. His blood. Fuck.

“No!” Ciri says, wild and desperate.

The ground beneath them trembles. 

“Oh,” Jaskier manages.

Ciri inhales sharply, her eyes widening briefly before her features harden. She bites her lip and then _does_ move her hand, but only one, guiding Jaskier’s hands to his own wound. It’s rather disgustingly soft and squishy, and he feels like he should apologize for making a princess touch it.

“Press down,” Ciri commands. “Like Geralt said.”

Her own arms she winds through Jaskier’s armpits pulling him close against her body as her hands come to cover his ears.

Ciri takes a deep breath.

And screams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Kaer Morhen, Geralt takes drastic measures to keep Jaskier alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic depictions of a medical procedure and a seizure.

The blast of energy knocks Geralt clear off his feet, sending him flying backwards. The back of his skull and his injured shoulder smack into a tree trunk, and he has to spend several long moments blinking white spots out of his vision before he can fully focus again.

Luckily, the Nilfgaardians who had been attacking him are far worse off. One of them currently has Lambert’s sword stuck between his eyes, and the second has been soundly decapitated.

Vesemir, the likely headsman, is kneeling in front of him. “Geralt?” he asks.

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement, already looking past him. 

“Fuck,” he says when he sees Ciri and Jaskier in a bloody heap together, the bright blue of Ciri’s cloak shocking against the red of blood and dirt.

He staggers to his feet, belatedly remembering the stab wound in his left leg when putting weight on it sends bright shocks of pain up it. He ignores it though, making his way over to Ciri and Jaskier.

Ciri is draped over Jaskier, almost curled around him, her hands on his ears. Jaskier is pale as death, his own hands now loosely atop his stomach. Blood is pouring freely from it, soaking the ground beneath him.

“What are you doing?” Geralt growls at Eskel, who’s standing above the two of them, just looking. “You have to put pressure on the wound,” Geralt says, dropping to his knees and doing exactly that.

“Geralt,” Eskel starts, kindly, gently, too soft for a witcher, and Geralt knows what he’s going to say.

“He’s still breathing, so fucking _help me_.”

Eskel hesitates a moment more, then nods, bending to gently untangle Ciri from Jaskier.

“She seems fine,” he says. “Heartbeat and breathing are normal.”

“I think she’s more than fine,” Lambert says from behind Geralt. “That’s some power she has.”

“Later,” Geralt grumbles. “We have to get Jaskier to the medical room.”

No one says anything.

“Unless any of you brought a sewing kit,” Geralt snaps. 

Come to think of it, Jaskier usually has one on hand, to patch up his clothes when they travel. It ought to be with the rest of their stuff on Roach...

Vesemir interrupts Geralt’s train of thought by kneeling on the other side of Jaskier’s body. “We’ll have to keep him steady when we move him,” he says. “Geralt, keep your hands there.”

Geralt nods. He can feel the soft squish of Jaskier’s skin and organs beneath his hands, feel his warm blood flowing out around his hands, through the gaps in his fingers. Nothing in the whole continent could make Geralt move his hands now, now when they’re forcefully keeping Jaskier’s life inside his body.

Except...he looks past Vesemir to where Ciri is lying on the ground, her hair a tangled mess in the dirt. She’s still, so still, her arms and hands coated in Jaskier’s blood. Luckily, he can see the rise and fall of her chest, confirming what Eskel had told him earlier.

“Ciri,” Geralt says.

“I’ve got her,” Eskel says, scooping her up easily.

Jaskier isn’t heavy, not for a witcher, and especially not for three, but he is tall, almost as tall as Geralt himself. With Vesemir supporting his upper body, Lambert his lower, and Geralt still applying pressure to his wound, they’re able to lift him with the smallest amount of jostling.

Jaskier still tosses his head, groaning faintly.

“Eskel, go ahead, settle the girl and prep the medical room,” Vesemir orders.

Along with Vesemir and Lambert, Geralt starts an awkward, long shuffle of getting Jaskier across the bridge and up into the fortress of Kaer Morhen. He wishes he could hold Jaskier tightly to him and _run_ , but he keeps having to remind himself that this slower way is better, that it keeps Jaskier steady, that it allows for Geralt to apply constant pressure to the wound, blood still pouring forth. At least it’s only blood that Geralt can smell, blood and dirt and fear, no bile or shit, which means the sword had avoided Jaskier’s intestines. A small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.

Jaskier grows paler and paler as they move as fast as they can, his life draining away beneath Geralt’s hands. Geralt can see the tinge of death on his skin, see his pulse start to weaken.

“Dammit, Jaskier, hold on,” he says.

“Geralt-” Lambert starts, but Geralt snarls at him, and he shuts up.

Geralt knows. He knows that by all probability that Jaskier will likely die. He knows. He doesn’t need it said.

It feels like a minor miracle, the kind that just doesn’t happen to him, that Jaskier is still alive and breathing by the time Eskel meets them at the gates. 

“I’ve made the girl comfortable on a couch in the medical room,” Eskel says, falling into awkward step with them. “The table is prepared as well.”

“Thank you,” Vesemir says.

Eskel darts forward and opens the door for them, and then Jaskier is on the table, as pale as the sheets below him, blood still pouring from his wound as Geralt kneels to keep the pressure.

“Fuck,” Eskel says.

“How much blood can a human lose?” Lambert asks.

“We need to close the wound,” Geralt says.

“Geralt, come on,” Lambert says.

“He’s still breathing,” Geralt points out, because Jaskier _is_. Uneven, irregular breaths, but breaths all the same.

“Not for much longer,” Lambert says bluntly.

If Geralt weren’t busy holding Jaskier’s stomach together with his hands, he’d break Lambert’s jaw for that.

“He’s dead, Geralt.”

“No!” Geralt snaps. Just the word feels like it’s set him alight, got his blood rushing. “He’s still breathing, that means there’s _time_. I will not let him die!”

His voice booms and echoes agonist the stones, and when it fades, the silence is ringing.

“Alright,” Vesemir says, his voice even and measured like a Witcher’s should be, his hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

Keeping one hand on Jaskier’s wound, Geralt grabs a bottle of disinfectant off the shelf uncorks it, pouring it directly on the wound. Jaskier makes a high whining sound in response but doesn’t wake.

“Fuck, you’re a stubborn ass,” Eskel says, but he comes forward, placing his own hands over Geralt’s so Geralt can pulls his own back and clean them.

He does so, pouring disinfectant over his hands until they’re dry. Not clean, there’s far too much blood caked on Geralt’s hands and forearms for this to clean them, but at least they’re sterile.

Wordlessly, Vesemir grabs the bottle from Geralt and uses it to clean his hands as Geralt grabs a needle and thread.

“Give those to me,” Vesemir says.

Geralt barely bites back a growl, gripping the supplies harder.

“Your hands are shaking,” Vesemir points out gently.

Geralt looks down and finds, to his surprise, that they are.

He can’t remember the last time his hands shook.

Wordlessly, he hands Vesemir the tools and replaces Eskel’s hands with his own once again.

Eskel steps back, saying nothing, as Vesemir threads the needle.

When he’s done Geralt takes a deep breath and pulls back enough to give him room, pressing the sides of Jaskier’s wound together. 

Jaskier makes a high helpless sound, but still doesn’t stir.

Vesemir gets straight to work stitching him up as blood continues to seep through Geralt’s hands, coating his forearms, making Jaskier’s skin slippery. He doesn’t allow himself to breathe until Vesemir has tied off the stitch and Eskel has pressed a wad of bandages over the wound as they wrap it.

Geralt watches, counting the uneven rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest. Underneath all the blood he’s unnaturally pale, almost as pale as Geralt with his near pigment-less skin.

“Geralt?”

Ciri’s voice is soft, and Geralt pries his eyes off Jaskier’s too-still body to turn and look at her. She’s sitting up on the couch now, streaked with dirt and blood, eyes wide in her small face.

Instinctively, Geralt opens his arms for her and Ciri bolts up off the couch and into them, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, fists clenching at the small amount of give in his armor.

Geralt goes to put her arms around her in return but stops, eyes caught by how thoroughly bloodied they are. A small, odd part of his brain is protesting ruining Ciri’s cloak, the one bit of finery she has from her old life.

“A wash,” he says quietly. “I think we all need one.”

Ciri sniffs and laughs wetly, nodding against Geralt’s chest.

“I’ll get the water started,” Vesemir offers.

“Thank you,” Geralt says.

“Will he be alright?” Ciri asks, her voice muffled from where her face is pressed into Geralt’s armor.

“I will not let him die,” Geralt promises her.

Ciri squeezes him harder. “What if you can’t stop it though?” she asks, voice smaller and quieter.

Geralt knows she’s right. He knows that Jaskier’s lost too much blood, that his wound is deep, that the chance of infection and fever is high. And he knows that no one in the room has any idea of how to treat a mortally wounded human. He’s a witcher, he’s used to death, death at his own hands, death at a monster’s, death from swords and claws and talons. Seen people and animals ripped to shreds, fought beasts who still had chunks some poor farmer stuck between their teeth. He’s seen men fight to the death over an old goat, a woman, a bag of gold, even a game of cards. He’s pierced a princess’ throat with her own dagger, seen a queen’s broken body on the ground after a fall from a high tower. One bard with a fatal sword wound to the stomach shouldn’t be so much.

But it is.

“I will do everything I can,” he vows, to Ciri, who’s lost so much already, to Jaskier, who he can’t bear to lose, to himself.

Ciri nods against his chest and continues to cling to him, trembling slightly.

Then, on the bed, Jaskier makes a small groan.

Everyone’s head snaps towards him, even Ciri’s, who lifts her head out of Geralt’s chest to look.

Jaskier tosses his head from side to side a few times, making soft noises of distress.

Geralt rushes over to his side, as fast as he can while Ciri still clings to him. “Jaskier,” he says quietly.

“Ger’l,” Jaskier slurs, his voice heavy.

“I’m here,” Geralt tells him, placing one hand on his brow, hoping to soothe his instinct to move. He can feel Jaskier’s pulse through his temples, too thready, too fast. He’s lost too much blood.

“H’rts,” Jaskier says, but his head stills.

“I know,” Geralt says.

“Isn’t there something you can give him?” Ciri asks, sounding upset.

Geralt looks at the shelf above the bed. It’s filled with potions and salves, made for witchers, all of them. Except...

Geralt grabs a bottle of swallow.

“Geralt,” Eskel says, wrapping his fingers around his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Just a bit,” Geralt explains. “Not as much as we’d use.”

“It’s poison to him, Geralt.”

“Just a small amount,” Geralt repeats. “Then white honey as soon as any negative effects start.”

Eskel frowns. 

Geralt feels his gaze burning into him, feels Ciri’s and Lambert’s too, judging, weighing him and his decisions.

Lambert reaches out and pulls back the edge of the blanket, checking the wound. Blood is already spotting through the bandage, and Jaskier’s skin is growing paler by the second.

“I have to try something,” Geralt says.

Eskel is still frowning, but he sets his mouth in a determined line and releases Geralt’s wrist, grabbing the bottle of white honey off the shelf.

“Come with me,” Lambert says, stepping back and beckoning to Ciri. “Give Geralt both his hands.”

Ciri hesitates, looking up at Geralt for guidance.

Geralt nods. “Go to Lambert,” he says. “And don’t watch.” If the potion does poison Jaskier, or if the blood loss gets to him first, he doesn’t want to her to see him die.

Ciri’s eyes grow wet but she nods, giving Geralt one last squeeze before she unwraps her arms from around his middle. She reaches out and gives Jaskier’s hand a quick hard squeeze too, before backing up, running to Lambert. She takes his hand in both of hers, and turns her face away.

Lambert raises his eyebrows but he also draws up Ciri’s hood, draping it over her head, blocking her peripheral vision.

Geralt takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, focusing inward as he’s been taught, slowing his already slow heart rate, steadying his breathing. Complete control over his body.

He opens his eyes on the exhale and slides his right arm underneath Jaskier, splaying his hand wide to support the bard’s chest and neck, careful to lift him high enough that he won’t choke on the potion, but not high enough that to jostle his wounded abdomen.

Eskel slides one of his hands under the base of Jaskier’s skull, propping up his head and mouth.

Jaskier’s body moves like a limp puppet, and it churns Geralt’s stomach.

“Jaskier,” he says.

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter.

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, louder.

Jaskier’s mouth moves, vague grumbles falling from his lips.

“Close enough,” Geralt growls, pressing the bottle of swallow to Jaskier’s lips. “Drink,” he commands, tipping an ever so small amount into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier closes his lips at least and his throat moves as he swallows to avoid choking on the liquid. He still coughs after, a rattling, raspy thing.

Geralt switches potions with Eskel, white honey ready to go down the same way if Jaskier starts reacting poorly.

For a long time nothing really happens. The room is quiet, the only sounds the slow measured breathing of the witchers, Ciri’s anxious, fast breaths, and Jaskier’s uneven, stuttered, pained breathing.

Then, slowly, the veins on Jaskier’s face start to darken, the tell-tale sign of the potion in his system. He keeps breathing through it, his pulse keeps beating against Geralt’s fingers.

“Geralt,” Eskel says.

“I see it,” Geralt says. He watches the veins under Jaskier’s skin darken and grow with the toxin. He’s poisoned him, this is Geralt’s doing, and if the poison tears him apart from the inside it will be Geralt’s fault.

Eventually though, the pulse Geralt can feel under his fingers on Jaskier’s neck starts beating again, proper, rhythmic and strong, instead of just weak flutters.

“Good,” he whispers, afraid to break the silence.

“Geralt?” Eskel prompts.

“His pulse is getting stronger,” Geralt explains.

“Is it working?” Ciri asks, her soft voice carrying.

It’s Eskel who answers when Geralt hesitates. “We’re not sure yet.”

A non-answer, but not a lie. Geralt grunts his approval.

Their tableau continues to hold, tense, waiting for something to change. It’s another several long moments before it does.

The sound of Vesemir opening the door is enough to make Ciri jump, and to grab the attention of the other witchers. 

“I’ve drawn a bath,” Vesemir says. He raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Geralt gave Jaskier swallow,” Lambert says. 

“Geralt,” Vesemir begins, his tone full of reproach and one that Geralt finds he remembers well.

“I didn’t give him much,” Geralt says.

“It’s poison,” Vesemir says.

“Humans drink small amounts of poison all the time,” Geralt says, his voice a growl. “Alcohol is poison.”

“Swallow is a great deal more potent,” Vesemir points out.

“Which is why I have white honey in my hand,” Geralt continues. “It’s helping. His pulse is stronger.”

“Reckless,” Vesemir says. “Look at his face. There’s no guarantee white honey will even work.”

“Why let him bleed out if I could do something to stop it?” Geralt snaps.

“He’d die either way,” Lambert offers.

“He’s not dying!” Geralt insists. “His pulse is stronger, his breathing steadier.”

Against the sheets, Jaskier’s hand twitches.

Everyone stares at it.

Against the edge of Geralt’s arm, Jaskier’s head lolls. “G’r’lt,” he groans.

“Hey,” Geralt says.

“D’n feel g’d,” Jaskier slurs.

“That’s because you were gutted by a Nilfgaardian,” Lambert offers.

Geralt doesn’t see Ciri stamp on his foot, but he does hear the shifting of positions, Lambert’s surprises intake of breath, and Eskel’s chuckle.

The humor barely manages to last a moment, because then Jaskier’s eyes fly open and he gasps Geralt’s name around an awful choking noise before his body starts to seize. His veins turn to near-black under his skin.

“Fuck!” Geralt says, firming up his grip on Jaskier.

Eskel leans forward, one hand on Jaskier’s hip, sliding the hand on his head to his shoulder, holding him down. 

“Geralt-”

“I know!” Geralt snaps. He knows it’s the swallow poisoning Jaskier’s fragile human systems, knows that this is his fault for giving it to Jaskier, which is why he tips the white honey into Jaskier’s mouth, enough to counter the poison but not enough to choke before tossing the bottle aside, uncaring of it or its contents and closing Jaskier’s mouth.

“Swallow it,” he says gruffly. He can feel Jaskier’s throat working, trying to throw it up. “Swallow, Jaskier.”

But Jaskier is beyond listening.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Geralt chants, using one hand to keep Jaskier’s mouth closed so he can’t throw up, his other to pinch his nasal airways shut, forcing Jaskier to swallow to breathe.

Jaskier continues to struggle, his eyes going wide in panic as his breathing stops.

“Swallow, you stupid fucking bard!” Geralt shouts.

And finally, finally, he does.

It doesn’t work immediately. 

Jaskier continues to seize against Geralt and Eskel, eyes rolling, breath wheezing, his veins dark and prominent. When he does go limp, it’s sudden and shocking and Geralt feels something he hasn’t felt since he was a child facing the trials.

Terror.

Sheer terror, as the pulse he can feel beneath his thumb stops.

“Jaskier don’t you fucking dare,” he whispers harshly. “Please,” he adds, barely daring to whisper it as the rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest halts.

It’s the worst few seconds of Geralt’s very long life. He doesn’t realize that he’s stopped breathing too until Jaskier inhales again, unsteady, but breathing.

Geralt forcefully swallows the raw, animalistic sound that wants to come out. He keeps one hand on Jaskier’s chest, the other on the pulse point under his jaw, counting the bard’s breaths and pulse. He can’t do anything but watch, almost disbelieving in his relief, as slowly but surely Jaskier’s veins start to fade, no longer visible as his color starts to come back to his face.

“Well that was dramatic,” Lambert sighs.

The tension shatters and Vesemir says, “Lambert,” in scolding tones at the same time Geralt growls and Eskel smothers his laugh.

Geralt is glaring at Lambert, but his attention is drawn to Ciri, shaking her head to drop her hood. “Is Jaskier okay?” she asks.

“For now,” Geralt tells her. He rests Jaskier’s head and neck back on the bed and opens his arms to her again.

Ciri runs, slamming into his side, wrapping one arm around Geralt and taking Jaskier’s hand in her other. “He’s cold,” she says.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Geralt says. “But here.” Gently, he reaches down and rearranges Ciri’s fingers so the pads are resting in the pulse point in Jaskier’s wrist. “Feel that? That’s his pulse. Means he’s still alive.”

Ciri nods, her expression deeply serious. “I tried to stop it, Geralt,” she says, her voice wobbly. “I tried to hold it in him but there was _so much_ -”

“You did well,” Geralt assures her. The bloodstains on her are proof enough of that.

“I’ve drawn water for a bath,” Vesemir reminds Geralt. “And prepared a second basin for you to wash in as well.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, meaning it.

Eskel claps him on the shoulder. “Go on,” he says, “get your smelly ass out of here. We’ll look after the bard.”

Ciri gives a small giggle and relaxes fractionally.

Geralt takes her small hand in his, Jaskier’s blood staining them both, and leads her out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets worse before he gets better.

Pain in the only thing Jaskier is aware of. It feels like dying, but not death, because isn’t death supposed to be peaceful and painless? Unless he’s bound to become one of those angry spirits Geralt often deals with. If it hurts this much he can understand why they’re always so angry.

He tries to open his eyes, and is sort of surprised that it works. The room he’s in is dimly lit, a few torches spread around it but nothing more.

Encouraged, Jaskier tries to open his mouth. It also works, though his mouth is incredibly dry, and it makes him cough.

Coughing was a mistake.

It jostles his chest and the blinding pain afterwards makes sweat break out along his forehead as he cries out, which also hurts.

Then there’s a big, warm hand at the base of his skull, cupping it gently as it lifts his head, tilting it up.

“Drink,” someone says, pressing a vial against his mouth.

Jaskier does and it feels like fire.

He starts to cough, but the vial is quickly replaced by a cup, which Jaskier gratefully realizes is filled with cold, soothing water.

“One more,” the voice says again, and this time the liquid is thick and numbing.

“There, good,” the voice says, guiding Jaskier’s head back down.

Jaskier tries to turn his head to look at whoever it is feeding him potions. The effort makes his head swim and his vision blur, and with the dim lighting all he can see is golden cat-like eyes.

_Geralt_? He tries to ask, but the word gets stuck in his throat. He swallows a few times before trying again. “G-Ger’lt?” He manages.

“No,” the voice says. “I am Vesemir.”

Jaskier frowns. He doesn’t know a Vesemir, and he’s sure that he’s looking at Geralt’s eyes. The color is very unique.

“Geralt?” he tries again. “You look like Geralt” is what he wants to say, but so many words feels impossible.

“No,” the voice, Vesemir apparently, repeats. “Geralt is fine, he is near, and sure to be back soon.”

Good. That’s all...good. Jaskier nods in acknowledgment of it being good, but it just makes his head swim. He groans and tries to reach for his head, but his arms feel like lead. Or maybe jelly.

It reminds him though, of small, blood soaked hands pressing over his ears. “Ciri?” he asks, suddenly panicked as he remembers.

“Also safe,” Vesemir assures him. “And well.”

That’s also good. More than good. Jaskier opens his mouth to say so, since nodding had gone so poorly last time, but with his swimming head and his pounding pain, he just ends up choking as his stomach clenches.

Quickly and smoothly Vesemir has a hand beneath him again, raising his head and shoulders until he’s upright enough that he vomits into a bucket that’s suddenly beneath his chin. When he’s done Vesemir removes the bucket and replaces it with the water cup.

“Slow sips,” he says as Jaskier drinks thankfully.

He waits a bit, probably to see if Jaskier will throw up the water, and when he doesn’t, gives him yet another vial to sip from. It tastes better than the other ones Jaskier had before, and thankfully doesn’t feel like fire or numb.

When Jaskier is still yet to vomit, Vesemir guides him back down. His movements are so smooth and easy, his reflexes so sharp, that it finally makes its way through Jaskier’s foggy brain that there’s a reason Vesemir has the same eyes as Geralt.

“Wi’ch-er,” he pants.

It’s too dark and Jaskier is too befuddled to tell, but he thinks that Vesemir smiles, just a little bit. “Yes,” he says. “I’m a witcher.”

Jaskier doesn’t want to risk nodding or talking again, so he borrows a play from Geralt’s book and hums softly in acknowledgement.

His brain is foggy and he feels exhausted, and the knowledge that he’s being cared for by Geralt’s people soothes him to sleep.

* * *

The next time Jaskier wakes up he’s warm. Too warm, as if he’s surrounded by a fire in the middle of summer.

He groans and tries to shove the blanket off of him. When he can’t get his arms to cooperate, he tries kicking at them.

“Shh, settle down,” a deep voice says, patting the blankets back down.

Jaskier groans again and manages enough coordination to pat at the person’s wrist. “Off,” he says.

The hand moves away quickly. “Sorry,” the voice says.

“He wants the blankets off,” a second voice says, and Jaskier knows that one. It’s Geralt!

“Ger’lt,” he says, but it comes out slurred and with far less energy than he intended.

“It’s me,” Geralt says, his voice much closer.

Jaskier forces his eyes open to look at him. Geralt’s crouching next to whatever Jaskier is lying on and his hair is loose, hanging down, sweeping past his shoulders and framing his face. He looks tired, and worried, a frown line between his brows to match the frown on his face. Standing behind him is another man, his hair darker and shorter than Geralt’s, with long scars running down the length of the right side of his face. His arms are crossed and he’s frowning, like Geralt, and also like Geralt, his eyes glow amber in the dim light of the room. Another witcher then.

“Wha’s wrong?” Jaskier slurs. He’s hardly ever seen Geralt so outwardly concerned, and he doubts this other witcher shows it much easier.

Geralt presses the back of his hand to Jaskier’s temple.

It’s blessedly cool, and Jaskier shifts to press into it, some relief from the heat that he feels like he’s baking in. It’s weird though, usually Geralt is the warm one. Maybe that’s why he’s worried? Jaskier is about to tell Geralt to go get some gloves to warm up, when Geralt speaks first.

“You’re hot,” he says.

Jaskier tries to smile flirtatiously at him, even though it’s takes so much energy that he’s not sure he succeeds. “Thanks,” he rasps. “You’re not half bad yourself.”

The witcher behind Geralt stifles what is clearly a laugh in his fist but Geralt continues to frown.

“Okay, okay” Jaskier allows. “Y’re hot too.”

The other witcher laughs again. “Quite the flirt isn’t he?” he says.

Geralt, if possible, looks even grumpier. “He’s delusional,” he says.

“No ‘m not,” Jaskier protests.

“Get me some cool rags,” Geralt says, ignoring him. “We need to bring his fever down.”

Jaskier tries to pout, but then Geralt starts running his cool fingers across his brow. It’s nice enough that he decides to forgive him.

“‘S nice,” he says.

“You’re gonna be alright,” Geralt says, still stroking. “I promise.”

* * *

The next thing Jaskier is aware of is being burned alive.

He cries out, pain burning a path from his stomach out across his whole body. There’s a murmur of voices around him, but Jaskier can only understand single confusing words here or there.

He makes another sound: a cry for help.

At his cry he feels a large hand brush across his forehead.

“He’s burning.”

Geralt, Jaskier recognizes. He tries to say his name, but all that comes out is another whine.

Geralt runs his fingers across Jasker’s forehead again.

“Shit,” Geralt growls.

“Fuck,” another voice agrees. “It would have been much easier if he had stayed asleep.”

“We can’t give him anything more,” a third voice says. “It’ll be too much.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what they’re talking about, meanings continuing to escape him in his fog. Geralt’s hand moves off his forehead and Jaskier can’t help crying out in distress, his eyes flying as open as he can stand. “Geralt,” he calls, his voice thready and high.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles, returning his hand to Jaskier’s forehead. Geralt is frowning, his big frame scrunched over to be even with the bed Jaskier is lying in. The frown isn’t so unusual for Geralt, but the way his eyes are darting quickly between Jaskier’s face and his torso makes Jaskier anxious.

He tries to follow Geralts gaze, but Geralt stops him with a finger on his chin. “Don’t look,” he says. “Just keep looking at me.”

Jaskier whimpers, a dazed type of fear sweeping over him. He’s too tired and in too much pain to worry about how pathetic his noises are. “Bad?” he asks.

Geralt grunts, but it’s not dismissive. “Your wound is infected. We need to drain it.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier says. Behind Geralt he sees someone he doesn’t recognize reach over him to grab a tub full of something.

“Prepare him,” the stranger says to Geralt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, scared, flailing a hand in his direction.

Geralt takes his hand in his. “This will hurt,” Geralt warns him. Blunt as ever, but not unkind, not with his fingers stroking patters across Jaskier’s brow. “You’ve had too much pain medicine. We can’t give you anything more. Eskel’s going to numb the area.”

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand and nods.

Geralt runs his fingertips across Jaskier’s forehead one more time, swiping his bangs to the side before pressing a cool, wet towel over it.

Jaskier sighs, the cold water relief against his hot skin.

Geralt is still frowning, he looks like he’s thinking. Or worried. Oh, gods. Jaskier feels a kind of primal fear at the idea that he’s in bad enough shape for Geralt to be openly _worrying_.

Geralt’s eyes move to the side, looking at the shelf. Logically, Jaskier knows this is okay, that Geralt is still holding his hand, but he cries out anyways and tries to pull Geralt closer.

“Shh,” Geralt says, once he’s found what he’s looking for. He turns back to Jaskier. “You need to be as still as possible.”

“Okay,” Jaskier agrees, even though he can feel himself trembling. He’ll try. For Geralt he’ll try.

“Geralt, I’m ready,” the other voice says.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says yet again, voice pitching up in fear. _He’s_ not ready.

“I’m here,” Geralt assures him. “Bite down on this,” he adds, offering a strip of leather.

Jaskier eyes it.

“You don’t want to accidentally bite your tongue,” Geralt says.

Jaskier nods, hesitates, then asks: “Stay?” He’d beg if he had the energy.

“I’ll be here,” Geralt says.

“Okay,” Jaskier breathes, leaving his mouth open for the strip.

Geralt puts it in and Jaskier bites down. If the situation were less serious, and Jaskier felt less like he was dying, he’d make a joke about other things Geralt could put in his mouth.

In the next second the thought flies out of his head though, because Jaskier is experiencing more pain than previously thought possible. It feels like his abdomen is full of burning knives, and quick, theoretically gentle, presses over it are like being grated across wire.

When he can be aware of anything else, he’s aware that Geralt has one hand on his cheek now, his thumb swiping under Jaskier’s eye.

“It’s alright, it’s over for now. Have to give the numbing salve time to work,” Geralt is saying, his voice pitched low and quiet. Combined with his natural growl, the effect is actually quite soothing.

Jaskier tries to respond, say something about how he can’t even imagine not being in pain ever again, but he ends up just making a kind of whimpering noise around the leather in his mouth.

Geralt lets go of his cheek, which is shit, but he does take the strip out of Jaskier’s mouth and keeps ahold of his hand, so Jaskier will forgive him.

“Ow,” Jaskier says, instead of anything longer, because right now it’s difficult to coordinate his tongue.

“I’m sure,” Gerlat agrees.

Whatever the witcher salve is, it works fast. Jaskier can feel the blinding pain starting to fade into a burning pulse like the rest of his body.

“Still?” he asks. Geralt had asked him to keep still, he remembers, but he can’t tell if he’s moving. Even now, he fells like he’s made of fire.

“Yes, you kept still,” Geralt tells him. “You need to keep doing that.”

“Jaskier.

It’s not Geralt this time, but the other one. The one Jaskier had heard earlier, speaking from somewhere out of sight.

Jaskier blinks, trying to focus.

“I need you to tell me if you can fell this,” the voice says.

Jaskier frowns. All he can feel is fire and pain.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s head swims when he tries to respond.

“Jaskier.”

It’s Geralt again the second time, his voice that low rumble. Jaskier feels his mind relaxing. Geralt makes sense. The stranger doesn’t.

“Jaskier, can you hear me?” Geralt asks.

“Yeah,” Jaskier breathes.

“Can you feel Eskel poking you?”

Is that what the other had meant? Jaskier frowns, trying to figure out if he can. He’s not sure. Mostly just everything hurts. He says so, or tries to.

“Hurts,” he manages. “All’it.”

“He’s in too much pain to differentiate,” Geralt translates.

_Good_ , Jaskier thinks. Good Geralt. Knowing what he means.

“Well, that’s something,” another voice says.

Jaskier can’t tell if it’s the same one as before or not. Instead he squeezes Geralt’s hand and looks at him, trusting Geralt to explain if he has to.

“We’re going to reopen your wound, drain it, and then suture it back up,” Geralt says, his voice serious.

Jaskier whimpers.

“The area itself is numbed, but it will still hurt. You have to keep still, or it will hurt more.”

“W-what if…can’t,” Jaskier stammers. He still feels like his whole body is being stabbed with hot pokers, but, somehow, underneath it all, he’s starting to feel the chill of fear creeping in.

“I’ll hold you down if I have to,” Geralt says. He looks unhappy about it.

Jaskier’s not though. He knows Geralt would never hurt him. Not physically or on purpose. “Okay,” he sighs softly, hoping it conveys how he feels. Clumsily, he entwines the fingers of the hand Geralt is holding with Geralt’s.

Geralt is still staring at him, giving him a deep, serious look. A look that expresses that he desperately has something to say.

But he isn’t saying it.

“Hey,” Jaskier murmurs, trying to prompt him.

“You’re scared,” Geralt says.

“Yeah,” Jaskier agrees. He’s tired and he hurts. His abdomen is on fire, his brain feels muddled, and he understands enough to realize that he’s about to go through major surgery while still somewhat awake.

But Geralt being there, a little furrow between his brows, his fingers wrapped securely around Jaskier’s, makes it better.

“Geralt,” the other voice says, firm.

Geralt exhales and shifts, stopping just shy of pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s. For a wild moment Jaskier thinks that Geralt is about to kiss him, because wouldn’t this be the time for him to do it, while Jaskier is pained and delusional. Instead he just says, “I’ll be here.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier says, glad his voice doesn’t shake. Part of him thinks that maybe he should _ask_ for a kiss, certainly if he’s about to die, Geralt would indulge him. But before he can, Geralt picks up the leather strip from before and slides it into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier bites down, and Geralt squeezes his hand hard, before tilting his head to nod at the other sitting at Jaskier’s side.

It’s a good thing Geralt gagged him, because Jaskier is sure he would have bitten through his tongue, his cheek, his lips, as his stomach erupts into agony.

He screams, his jaw clamping on the gag, his hand clutching at Geralt’s.

The pain doesn’t fade, if anything, it gets stronger by the second. Jaskier’s voice breaks on an extended scream and he sees starts behind his eyes.

“Shit, shit,” he hears someone saying. “Geralt!”

Then there’s more agonizing pressure against his hip and Jaskier chokes on his next scream, thrashing his head from side to side, trying to escape it.

There’s a lot of noise in his head, and he can’t tell how much of it is real and how much is his imagined screams. But he can hear Geralt’s voice in the midst of it, calling his name, so he tries to listen.

A squeeze of his hand reminds him that he has one. Then he realizes that he has the hand in his – Geralt’s hand – in a death grip and tries to loosen it, fingers spasming.

“Jaskier? Good, Jaskier, you hear me right?”

It’s Geralt speaking again. Jaskier tries to respond but doesn’t know how, his body nothing but a whirl of pain.

“You need to calm down, okay? Relax for me, Jaskier. You have to stay still, remember?”

Jaskier does remember that. Vaguely. It’s hard to remember or even imagine a time when he wasn’t trapped in this pain.

Still. He doesn’t how if he’s moving, everything just hurts _so much_ , but he tries, locking his jaw in place around the strip in his mouth, pressing his face into the pillow, forcing his fingers still around Geralt’s.

He whines, high pitched, trying to let Geralt know that he’s trying.

“Shh, shh, there, keep breathing, Jaskier.”

Breathing. Right. Jaskier knows how to do that. His singing tutor had taught him.

He tries to inhale deeply, but the air grates across his raw throat, distracting him, and honestly, Jaskier is amazed that he can feel any more pain.

“Fucking _shit_ , Jaskier, you need to keep breathing.” Geralt’s voice is fast and loud, out of control, like he’s angry, except he doesn’t sound angry.

“Jaskier, you dumb fuck, breathe!” Geralt demands.

Vaguely, Jaskier notes to himself that that hadn’t been very nice, and that he really ought to tell Geralt to get some fucking manners, but all he can produce is vague, garbled sound as he inhales deeply, like he’s going to sing, just to prove Geralt wrong.

“Thank fuck,” Geralt says, his tone settling.

Jaskier whines at him, but it comes out sounding like a sob.

“That’s it,” Geralt says, _still_ talking. “Keep still, keep breathing.” Jaskier feels a tug on his arm distantly, Geralt pulling at their joined hands, pressing them against his chest. “With me, breathe with me, stay with me, Jaskier.”

It’s got to be the most Jaskier’s ever heard him speak in the decades that they’ve known each other. Distantly he’s mad that Geralt could have been _using his words_ this whole fucking time, but much more immediately he’s glad for the anchor it gives him, the focus. He’s glad too for the grip of their hands, the pressure of Geralt’s strength surrounding his hand, pressed up against his chest, moving slowly, deliberately.

Jaskier tries to focus on that, on the rhythm of Geralt’s sure breaths, but it’s hard when he hurts _so much_.

Then the pain changes, becomes something new, a rain of fire _inside_ of him.

Jaskier chokes on a scream, and then on the contents of his stomach that his body has decided to expel in its quest to rid itself of the pain.

It’s a good thing Geralt has such good reflexes, Jaskier thinks confusedly, because one second he’s choking, and the next second one of Geralt’s arms is behind his shoulders, his hand on his neck, directing Jaskier’s vomit into a bowl that’s suddenly held in front of him.

“That’s really not good,” someone says. “Potions won’t do anything if he can’t keep them down.”

Geralt growls. “You should have said something before you used the rinse!”

“Yes, because that would have helped,” the other voice says.

“I could have braced him.”

“I’m sure he’s very lucid and would have understood. Now shut up, Geralt, and let me focus.”

The thread of the conversation escapes him, but Jaskier wants to laugh at the idea of someone telling Geralt to “shut up”.

Geralt simply growls again.

He sounds unhappy, so Jaskier tries to press closer, but everything is swimmy and seems far, so he’s not sure if he succeeds.

If he doesn’t, Geralt seems to read his intent, because next thing Jaskier knows the bowl in front of his fac is gone, his head is resting on Geralt’s frankly ridiculously muscled arm, and the hand at the back of his head has threaded through the short hairs there, fingers rubbing in soothing circles.

It’s a nice counterpoint to the fire in his abdomen.

Thinking of which makes him gag again.

“It’s alright,” Geralt says, fingers pressing harder at the base of Jaskier’s skull. “Focus on me, Jaskier.”

“Mmph,” Jaskier manages on his first try. Then, on his second, “Bowl?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt says. “You can throw up on me.”

“Ew.”

“Less gross than selkiemore guts,” Geralt points out.

You’re nicer than a selkiemore, Jaskier wants to say, but he can’t, instead reduced to mumbling into the warm, firm muscle supporting his head.

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

Jaskier smiles. “Hmm,” he replies.

“Almost done,” that strange other voice says.

“Good,” Geralt says. “His pulse is weakening.” He shifts slightly, still holding Jaskier’s head and shoulders, and guides him back down to rest against the bed.

The sheets are scratchy, not at all as soothing as Geralt’s smooth muscles, and Jaskier makes a plaintive noise of dislike.

Geralt chuckles.

Jaskier’s brain swirls. He’s not sure he’s _ever_ heard Geralt laugh, or chuckle, or express any sort of amusement other than letting one side of his lips curl up ever so slightly. Maybe they’re both dying.

“Don’t worry,” Geralt is saying. “I’ll stay.” He grabs Jaskier’s hand again in his own big, warm, broad one.

Jaskier squeezes it.

“Good, keep squeezing,” Geralt says. “See if you can squeeze hard enough to hurt a witcher.”

Oh, _gods_ , Geralt is being playful and _nice_. Jaskier is definitely dying.

He tries to say so, but all he manages is, “Die?”

“You are _not_ going to die,” Geralt says, his voice like the first ominous rumble of thunder.

_That’s more right_ , Jaskier thinks.

Geralt leans in closer, and this time he does press his forehead against Jaskier’s temple. “I will not let you die,” he vows, directly in Jaskier’s ear.

The rational part of Jaskier knows that if he bleeds out, or if the infection cooks his brain, there’s nothing anything Geralt even with all his muscles and magic can do. The other part, the part that writes poems and ran off into danger to follow a disinterested witcher, believes him.

He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to inhale the sensation of Geralt being so close.

He focuses on that, even as the other voice starts up again. It must be a warning because Geralt squeezes his hand and says, “Just the stitching now. Don’t pay attention. Focus on me.”

_I always do_ , Jaskier thinks, as he tries not to think about how it feels like the skin of his abdomen is being tugged across something sharp and burning. His head is too foggy to even think of a metaphor, fuck. The thought makes him want to cry.

“Just a few more seconds, and it’s all over,” Geralt says. He squeezes Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier just barely manages to squeeze back.

“Good,” Geralt praises. It’s weird to hear. “Once the stitching is done I can put you to sleep,” he continues. “I can’t do it now, the stitching would just wake you up.”

Jaskier whimpers. If he really thinks about it, his current pain is not the worst pain he’s felt in the past…however long it’s been.

“Eskel’s good at this, stitched me up when we were boys, you don’t have to worry,” Geralt continues.

Dizzily Jaskier wonders if Geralt is only telling him things about, gods, his _childhood_ , because Jaskier is about to die.

“Done.”

There’s a slight shift in pressure on Jaskier’s abdomen. He makes a soft noise, though it’s probably lost amidst the rustling that follows after.

“You did so good,” Geralt says against Jaskier’s temple, lips brushing it in something almost approaching a kiss.

Jaskier hums slightly, pleased. It’s quite a change, Geralt talking and him humming, but thinking of words feels too difficult.

“Is he still conscious?” Jaskier hears someone ask.

“Mm,” Jaskier says.

“Yes,” Geralt says.

“Damn. Tough little shit isn’t he?”

If Jaskier felt any better, he would laugh. As it is, all he can do is smile.

“We ought to change the sheets.”

“I’d have to move him,” Geralt protests, moving his head back from Jaskier’s.

Jaskier immediately wants him back.

“He’ll be more comfortable if he doesn’t have to sleep in his own blood and sweat and piss.”

“Ew, Ger’lt,” Jaskier manages.

Geralt chuckles again. “Alright,” he agrees lowly. His fingers find their way back into Jaskier’s hair, petting and finger combing out the tangles. Jaskier finds himself drifting, focusing on the soothing feeling of Geralt’s petting even as there’s the distinct rustling of sheets.

“Okay, ready,” a voice says gently.

“Be quick about it,” Geralt says, his tone firm. He runs his hand down, over the curve of Jaskier’s face and neck, down to his shoulders as his other arm slides underneath Jaskier’s legs.

“Mmf,” Jaskier says. His legs feel oddly disconnected from his body.

“I have you,” Geralt says, and this time Jaskier can feel the rumble in his chest as Geralt lifts him, cradling him against his chest.

It’s a shame Jaskier still feels too out of it to truly appreciate Geralt’s chest from so close. He tries to take in what he can though, the scent of Geralt’s skin, less like horse and dirt than usual, and more like a simple soap and himself. It’s nice.

Jaskier finds himself drifting again, trying to match his breathing to Geralt’s own slow breaths. He’s not sure how long it is before Geralt is lowering him smoothly back to the bed.

“Sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says lowly, and Jaskier obeys.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets a little bit better, and re-meets his hosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic description of a serious injury

Finally, the next time Jaskier awakes, he feels more like a human and less like a giant bruise. He manages to open his eyes without even a groan, and take in the room he’s been placed in clearly for the first time.

The walls are stone, with a hearth in the side wall and a brazier near the bed, both crackling with fire. There are no windows, but the torches lining the walls are painting the room with a warm glow.

Jaskier turns his head to the side, and it only aches instead of making him feel like he’s breaking into pieces.

And older witcher who looks vaguely confusingly familiar is sitting beside him, watching.

“Hello,” Jaskier says, his voice hoarse.

“Hello,” the witcher replies, the lines on his face softening.

 _As loquacious as Geralt_ , Jaskier thinks to himself. He was hoping the witcher would give him something to work off of, so he doesn’t have to ask questions that make a fool of him. He’s certain that this witcher has told him his name, but he cannot remember it.

“Do you happen to know where Geralt is?” he asks eventually.

Something that might be called amusement briefly flickers over the witcher’s face. “Taking a walk,” he says. “He will return soon.”

Jaskier nods, ecstatic when it neither makes the world swim around him nor make him feel like barfing. Emboldened by this success, he tries to sit up, and his abdomen protests, strongly. It feels like that time Geralt punched him in the stomach, except a million times worse.

He barely has time to yell in pain before the witcher’s hands are under him, helping to prop him up against the pillows.

“Do not try to move on your own yet,” he says sternly. “You do not want to pull your stitches.”

Stitches. Jaskier remembers getting sliced open by a Nilfgaardian sword, or at least, he remembers that it happened, even if his brain seems to be blocking how it felt in the moment. He assumes that Geralt, or maybe this other witcher, had sewn his guts shut. He thinks he has a vague memory of that too, of feeling like he was being pierced with fire.

“Right,” Jaskier says.

“Do you have questions?” The witcher prompts gently. “This is the first time you have been this lucid in quite some time.”

Jaskier does have questions. Lots of them. He takes a moment, trying to decide what to ask first. “Am I alright?” he ends up asking.

Something like a smile crosses the witcher’s face. “I believe you will be now. Your fever has broken and your being awake is a good sign.”

Jaskier nods. “I assumed you helped me,” he says. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

The witcher waves his hand. “It is not often we have humans here to care for at Kaer Morhen. But I remembered a few things from when there were still boys here.”

Jaskier thinks that through for a moment. It makes sense that they had finally made it to the fortress. “Your memories seem to have served you well,” he says eventually.

“It seems that I have not lost my touch, despite my years,” the witcher says, humor in his voice.

Jaskier brightens at that. “So witcher’s _can_ make jokes,” he says. “ _That’s_ just a Geralt thing.”

The witcher’s mouth quirks up again at that.

“I hate to be rude,” Jaskier says, “but I seem to have forgotten your name.”

“You were not quite conscious when we were introduced,” the witcher says. “I am Vesemir.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Vesemir,” Jaskier says, flashing him a smile and holding out his hand to shake, his left, as he doesn’t think he can reach across his body at the moment.

Vesemir shakes it, still looking amused. “There’s no need for niceties here, bard. I can still hear the questions in your head.”

“Can you blame me?” Jaskier asks with a smile. “I’m in the famed witcher’s fortress. And it’s not like Geralt has ever been particularly forthcoming.”

“We do not usually share our secrets with outsiders,” Vesemir says.

“Ah,” Jaskier says, feeling awkward, “well-”

“But you are inside the walls of Kaer Morhen now,” Vesemir continues. “I would say that makes you no longer an outsider.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Okay then, you mentioned boys before. Did you know Geralt?” It’s not the most pressing question, but the curiosity is eating him alive.

“I did,” Vesemir confirms.

“What was he like?” Jaskier asks, feeling delighted.

“Trouble,” Vesemir says simply.

Jaskier laughs hard at that, hard enough that he has to stop to gasp for air and grab at the pain in his stomach. “Fuck,” he pants.

“Hm,” Vesemir says, and Jaskier wonders if that’s where Geralt got it from, “you should rest more. Here.” He hands Jaskier a vial of white liquid.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks.

“A poppy mixture for pain. It will help you sleep as well.”

Jaskier hesitates. “Can I wait to take it?”

Vesemir gives him a small smile that Jaskier can’t read. “It doesn’t take effect immediately. You will have time to speak to him.”

“To him?” Jaskier repeats.

“I can hear Geralt approaching,” Vesemir says.

“You do?” Jaskier says, perking up again.

“Drink it,” Vesemir says.

Jaskier does, and not ten seconds later the door swings open and Ciri walks in, Geralt right behind her.

Jaskier smiles at them.

Ciri’s face breaks into a huge grin. “Jaskier!” she cries, rushing to his bedside. “You’re awake!” She sits on the edge of his bed and takes his hand between both of hers.

“It’s good to see you, Princess,” Jaskier says. His memories are still foggy and confusing, but he vividly remembers Ciri’s hands pressing over his wound. “Thank you for saving me.”

Ciri’s eyes fill and her lip trembles, but she bites her lip and the tears don’t fall. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says, gripping his hand. “I was so worried about you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Jaskier says.

“Geralt was worried too,” Ciri says, her eyes darting to Geralt, where he stands just behind her, looking unsure and awkward.

Vesemir chuckles as Geralt blinks, looking wrong-footed, eyes wide.

“You lost a great deal of blood,” Geralt says.

“And that worried you?” Jaskier prods, tilting his head to smile at him.

“Hm,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs softly. “Hm,” he repeats.

Geralt continues to look awkward, towering by the bed, and the silence goes on for too long before Vesemir stands.

“Come, Ciri,” he says. “It’s time to study.”

“But Jaskier-”

“Just took more medicine and needs to sleep. Geralt, you’ll watch him won’t you?”

Vesemir smoothly crosses to the other side of Jaskier’s bed, holding a hand out to Ciri.

She leans forward, wrapping Jaskier is a brief, gentle hug. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says again.

Jaskier kisses the side of her head before she pulls back. “I’ll see you soon,” he promises her.

Ciri takes Vesemir’s hand and lets him lead her to the open door. In the doorway, behind Geralt’s back, Jaskier sees Vesemir wink at her before they leave.

He smiles.

Geralt continues to stand awkwardly a few paces away from Jaskier’s bed.

“Oh, come here,” Jaskier says, patting the spot Ciri just vacated.

Geralt sits stiffly.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt frowns at that. “I’m fine,” he says.

“Then what’s wrong?” Jaskier prods. “You’re barely looking at me.”

Almost tentatively, Geralt reaches out and takes his hand.

“It’s okay if you were worried,” Jaskier says softly.

Geralt’s eyes focus on their hands. “You lost too much blood. I…I gave you witcher potions to replenish it. I didn’t know if it would work.”

“Well, it looks like it did,” Jaskier says, turning his hand over so he can link his fingers with Geralt’s.

“You had a seizure,” Geralt says. “Our potions are too toxic for humans.”

“But I’m okay,” Jaskier points out.

“White Honey neutralizes the toxins.”

“So it was fine,” Jaskier surmises.

Geralt looks up at him. He looks more upset that Jaskier’s ever seen him. “I almost killed you,” he says, voice rough.

“No,” Jaskier says, trying to pull him closer. Geralt only lets himself be moved a few inches. “No, no, you saved me. Look at me, Geralt. I’m here, I’m talking, I’m breathing, and soon I’ll have enough energy to annoy the shit out of you again. Okay? You _saved_ me.”

Geralt just looks at him, serious and intense, for several long moments. “Ciri isn’t the only one who’s glad you’re okay,” he admits eventually.

“Well, Vesemir seemed glad he didn’t have to deal with a corpse,” Jaskier says around a smile.

“You know what I mean,” Geralt grumbles.

“Just teasing you, my friend,” Jaskier says, a little too honest perhaps with the medicine starting to cloud his mind. “Will you stay with me? I think I’m about to fall asleep again.”

“Of course,” Geralt says. He stands up and lets go of Jaskier’s hand, ignoring the resulting pout and instead rearranging the pillows so Jaskier can lay down easier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls out softly when Geralt goes to retreat again, holding out his hand.

Geralt takes it without even an eyeroll, settling at the foot of Jaskier’s bed. “Rest,” he says, his voice a deep rumble. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Jaskier falls asleep taking it as a promise.

* * *

Geralt is still there when Jaskier wakes. He’s cross-legged on the bed, Jaskier’s hand still in one of his, resting on his thigh. His breathing is the deep, even rhythm Jaskier recognizes as meditation, but even so, it’s only a few seconds before Geralt opens his eyes.

“Good morning,” Jaskier teases.

“It’s evening,” Geralt says, the corners of his mouth turning up.

Which gets Jaskier thinking. “How long has it been?” he asks. “Since…everything.”

“We’ve been in Kaer Morhen for almost a week,” Geralt says. “Do you remember anything?”

“I remember that I was hurt,” Jaskier starts slowly. His brain feels muddled and sluggish, his memories slipping out of his awareness like dreams. “I remember that Ciri was there.” He looks at Geralt for confirmation and Geralt nods.

“We brought you to the fortress after finishing off the Nilfgaardians,” he says.

“I remember hurting,” Jaskier says. “And I remember being hot.”

“You had a fever,” Geralt says. “A high one. Your wound got infected.”

“That makes sense,” Jaskier murmurs.

“It started to drop once we drained the wound,” Geralt continues. “Do you remember any of that?”

Jaskier takes his time to think, to sort through the foggy memories. He remembers feeling like he was burning alive. And he remembers Geralt, remembers Geralt taking his hand and speaking to him softly. In his mind, the memories of pain and of Geralt are entangled. “You were there too, right?” he says.

Geralt nods.

“You spoke to me, I remember that,” Jaskier adds.

Geralt nods again.

“I remember that it was the most I’ve ever heard you say,” Jaskier says with a teasing smile. “Is it Kaer Morhen that brings it out or was it the near-death experience?”

Geralt frowns at him, his look of disproval at Jaskier’s lightness. It’s a look Jaskier is well acquainted with. “You were delusional,” Geralt says.

“So you didn’t stroke my hair and hold my hand and tell me that you’d never seen anyone bear pain as well as I?”

“I never said that,” Geralt objects.

“Ah, so you _did_ hold my hand and stroke my hair then,” Jaskier says with a grin.

Geralt looks away and snatches his hand back from Jaskier’s.

“Grump,” Jaskier complains. “I appreciate it, you know. Having those memories alongside the painful ones is nice. I’m sure I appreciated it in the moment as well.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

“That’s the verbosity I expect from you,” Jaskier says. He wants to sit up and poke at Geralt, tease him further, but it still feels like his whole abdominal area has been pummeled by a rock troll. “Help me sit up?”

Geralt moves action immediately, standing up and lifting Jaskier. His hands manage to be light, never pressing too hard and capable of taking most of Jaskier’s weight.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says as Geralt settles him against the pillows. It’s nice to be sat up, and Geralt seems to have relaxed with the instruction.

Geralt looks at Jaskier for a long moment, brows furrowed. He doesn’t seem to find the answer in Jaskier’s face, however, because he asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Jaskier says honestly. “And tired. But glad you’re here.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says again. “How sore? You can’t have any more pain medicine just yet, but I could put you back to sleep if you’d like.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not that sore, or that tired. Besides, you just sat me up.”

“Do you think you could eat?” Geralt asks. “You haven’t been able to keep much down.”

Jaskier doesn’t feel too hungry, but Geralt’s concern warms him. “I could try,” he says.

Geralt nods. “It’s Eskel’s turn in the kitchen today, I’ll have him bring you some soup.”

He straightens then, making to move to the door.

“Wait!” Jaskier calls, suddenly overwhelmed at the idea of Geralt leaving him.

Geralt stops, and gives Jaskier the tiniest of reassuring smiles. “I’m not leaving,” he promises. “I’m just going to call out the door.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, feeling foolish.

Geralt pauses, looking awkward before he says, “I will not leave if you do not wish me too.”

Jaskier beams at him. “I do not wish you to.”

Geralt nods at him before heading back to the door.

Jaskier takes the opportunity to just look at him. He’s always liked staring at Geralt, the man is certainly easy on the eyes, and like this, disheveled and comfortable, it’s even better. Geralt’s hair is looser than it normally is, still tied back but not as tightly, and it looks like there’s a remnant of a braid, halfway unspun, down the middle of it. He’s in a soft white shirt, so different from his usual black, and his pants are brown. Jaskier is kind of blown away by the idea that Geralt not only owns other clothes, but that these soft brown pants hug his ass just as deliciously as his usual black leather.

When Geralt is done shouting into the, as far as Jaskier can see, empty hallway, he turns back around.

“Was someone out there?” Jaskier asks.

“No,” Geralt says. “But the kitchen isn’t far. Eskel will have heard me.”

Right. Witcher’s hearing.

Geralt comes back so he’s hovering near the bed, but doesn’t sit again.

Jaskier decides to let it go. “I always wondered why you never braided your hair,” he says instead.

“What?” Geralt asks, looking at him like he’s mad.

Jaskier gestures to the mess of white hair around Geralt’s shoulders. “There’s a remnant of a nice braid there.”

Geralt’s hand goes to the back of his head, likely feeling around for the braid. “Ciri did that,” he says. “She wanted to teach me how.”

“You’re telling me that you never braid your hair back because you don’t know _how_?”

Geralt scowls at him. “And why would I have learned to braid hair?”

“Because your hair is long and braids help keep it out of your face,” Jaskier drawls.

Geralt’s scowl twitches. “Ciri said something similar,” he says.

Jaskier grins. “Good for her. We’ll teach you to braid hair yet.”

“Why do _you_ know how to braid hair?” Geralt demands.

“Women quite like getting their hair played with,” Jaskier says with a grin. “And it’s nice to do. Calming, intimate.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “I don’t need to be calmed.”

Jaskier bursts out laughing again, he wants to laugh long and hard but the pain in his side stops him. He groans and presses a hand to his side. “Oh, my friend, I beg to differ,” he says, still snickering.

Geralt is back on the bed, his hands hovering over Jaskier’s. “Let me see,” he says lowly. “You might have torn something.”

“I’m not going to tear my stitches from laughing, Geralt,” Jaskier says, but he moves his hands and lets Geralt lift up his shirt.

“Hm,” Geralt says. “Looks fine.”

Jaskier stares very intently at the top of Geralt’s bent head and not at his bared abdomen. “Should I look?” he asks quietly.

Geralt looks up and meets his eyes. “It’s not pretty,” he says.

Jaskier swallows. “But is it…gross?”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s neat. Eskel did a good job sewing you up.”

During his time at Geralt’s side, Jaskier has seen some of the most disgusting things he could ever imagine. Viscera and bile and shit, blood and pus and spit from all manner of beasts and not a few men. He’d plunged his hands into Geralt’s hair when it was covered with the innards of a Selkiemore. He’s helped Geralt hack the head off of dead monsters, picked through blood-soaked feathers and fur, twisted off monster parts with nothing but his own gloved hands. He can’t imagine that whatever is left of his abdomen is worse. Except that it’s attached to him. “Is there anything on the outside that should be on the inside?” he asks.

“No,” Geralt says firmly. “We got it all back in.”

Jaskier’s voice definitely does not reach a higher register as he repeats, “ _Back in_?’”

“Uh,” Geralt says, but they’re interrupted by a knocking from the door.

In the doorway stands another witcher, one that Jaskier can fuzzily visualize standing at his bedside before. He’s of a similar build to Geralt: broad-shouldered but lean otherwise, obviously strong. But he looks more relaxed than Jaskier usually sees Geralt; his brown hair is falling softly around his face, and he’s leaning, one foot crossed over the other even as he balances a tray of food in his other hand. “Sorry to interrupt you love birds,” he teases.

“Eskel,” Geralt growls.

“Hello!” Jaskier says warmly. He likes Eskel already. “Geralt told me that you sewed my guts back together. I would like to thank you for that.”

Eskel waves his free hand. “If I had let you die Geralt would have had my head,” he says with a teasing grin. The smile tugs on the scars that make up the right side of his face, making him look gruesome at first glance, but the warmth in his eyes offsets any terrifying effect. “Brought you some stew,” he continues, gesturing to the tray as he crosses the room.

There’s no table, or anywhere to put it Jaskier realizes, looking around.

Wordlessly, Great reaches up and takes the tray from Eskel, settling it in his own lap.

Eskel rolls his eyes but settles in the chair on the other side of Jaskier’s bed. “Really though, are you holding up okay?” he asks.

Jaskier nods. “Tired and sore. And…confused, I think.”

“That makes sense. You lost a lot of blood.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jaskier says quietly.

“And we’ve given you a _lot_ of drugs,” Eskel adds.

“And I didn’t even have to take off my clothes for them,” Jaskier says.

“Jaskier,” Geralt reprimands, even as Eskel starts laughing.

“We did take off your clothes, just to be clear,” Eskel says. “Had to get to your wounds.”

“A shame,” Jaskier sighs. “I usually make quite the production of it.”

“Eat your stew,” Geralt demands, practically shoving a spoonful into Jaskier’s mouth as Eskel laughs again.

“Is he always like this, or is this just the drugs?” Eskel asks.

“He’s always annoying,” Geralt answers, putting the spoon back in Jaskier’s mouth before he can defend himself.

“Mmph,” Jaskier protests.

“But not too annoying to keep around,” Eskel says with a significant look at Geralt. When Geralt steadfastly ignores him, Eskel catches Jaskier’s eye and winks at him.

Jaskier isn’t sure what to make of it. Yes, he definitely feels confused. He opens his mouth for another spoonful of food from Geralt instead of saying anything.

They remain in silence like that for a long while, just the sounds of the torches crackling and the clink of the spoon against the bowl. Geralt is too intensely focused for the task of _feeding Jaskier soup,_ even though it’s something Jaskier is quite confident he could do blindfolded, bound, and upside down. It makes it hard to look away from him, and they end of watching each other as Jaskier eats. The stew is good too. The heat is soothing and the texture isn’t too thick for Jaskier’s sore throat - it feels overused, like he’s been singing all night, and he assumes that he’s been screaming. It’s even _flavored_ , spices and vegetables alongside the meat stock and the potatoes. By the time Jaskier’s starts to feel it sitting almost uncomfortably heavy in his stomach, the bowl is over half gone.

“Actually, I think I’m full,” he says quietly as Geralt lifts another spoonful.

Geralt puts the spoon back in the bowl. “Was that too much?” he asks, still looking intense.

Jaskier shakes his head. The warm, full feeling is making him feel sleepy again. “It was good,” he says. “Looks like some witchers _do_ season their food.’”

“Geralt, have you been forcing him to eat bland meals?” Eskel demands.

Geralt looks at him just to frown. “There’s no point in bringing extras on the road,” he says. “We’re in the keep now. Circumstances are different.”

“Yes, they allow for pepper, apparently.”

“If you want pepper in your food you should carry it yourself, bard,” Geralt says. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

“Prove it,” Jaskier says. “While I’m here make me something that isn’t just bland whatever-I-caught-in-the-woods cooked over a campfire while we’re here.”

“Fine,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes. “Any requests?”

“Uh,” Jaskier says, thrown by the question. He had honestly expected Geralt to ignore him. “Whatever you like best,” he decides.

“Bigos,” Eskel mutters under his breath.

Geralt shoots Eskel an annoyed look.

Jaskier grins. “Is it really, Geralt?” he asks.

Geralt looks back at him and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, which is a yes. Geralt has no problem with declaring things he doesn’t like, even if he suffers through them, but gets shy and non-verbal when asked what he _does_ like.

Jaskier can’t help smiling. Knowing Geralt’s favorite food makes him feel better. “Will you make it for me while we’re here?” he asks.

“Fine,” Geralt agrees, but he doesn’t look as grumpy as he usually does.

Jaskier rolls his head on the pillow to look at Eskel. “Forgive me for being terribly rude, but I think I would like to sleep some more.”

“Not rude,” Eskel says, standing smoothly and clapping his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. His hand is warm and firm, and Jaskier can’t help feeling a little sad when he moves his hand. Geralt hardly ever touches him, not unless he’s patching him up or dragging him out of danger. Eskel takes the tray from Geralt and gives Jaskier another baffling wink while he’s between them before leaving.

“Will you help me lay down again?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods, and Jaskier gets to enjoy his touch as he gently shifts Jaskier and his pillows around.

“Will you stay again?” Jaskier asks quietly. “I get it if you need to be somewhere, but…”

“Nowhere else to be,” Geralt says. He reaches back out, like he’s going to touch, before pulling his hand back.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, wishing he wasn’t already falling asleep so he could reach out himself.

* * *

Jaskier feels even better when he next wakes. His head feels clearer, and though he still feels like he’d been pummeled by a rock troll, it feels like it had been a pummeling by a slightly smaller rock troll.

Geralt is still there when Jaskier wakes up next. He’s not on the bed anymore, but instead in the chair beside it, an extremely large book open in his lap.

“What are you reading?” Jaskier asks.

“Ancient bestiary,” Geralt says, his voice a rumble.

“Is it good?”

“It’s informative.”

“Even though it’s out of date?”

“Rarely do creatures truly disappear,” Geralt says. “And new breeds don’t come from the ether.”

“So it’s a bit like history. The history of beasts.”

“Something like that,” Geralt says, with a small wry smile. He shuts his book and sets it aside.

“You don’t have to stop on my account,” Jaskier says. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay awake for this time.”

“It’s fine. Wanna check on you,” Geralt mumbles.

“Oh, um, okay,” Jaskier says, the thought making him feel warm. He can actually feel himself blushing, and knows that Geralt can probably tell.

Geralt shifts closers and places the back of his hand on Jaskier’s head. It feels so heartbreakingly sweet, even if to Geralt it’s just a method of measuring temperature, that Jaskier’s heart leaps. He wonders if Geralt can hear it.

“A little warm,” Geralt says.

“You can’t blame me for that,” Jaskier says. “I tend to blush when a handsome man is caressing me.” He shuts his mouth with a click, burning hotter.

Geralt pulls back.

“No, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that,” Jaskier babbles, anxious. He hadn’t meant to say it, and he’s always been proud of his ability to thread the fine line between being genuinely interested in Geralt and interested too much so that it makes Geralt uncomfortable. “Uh, perhaps let’s blame that on the drugs?”

“Relax,” Geralt says. He stays close, still in Jaskier’s space, which is reassuring enough that Jaskier feels his heart settle down.

“I’m gonna look at your wound as well,” Geralt continues, reaching slowly for Jaskier’s shirt.

Jaskier focuses on keeping his breathing even and trying to calm his heart, and not on the feel of Geralt’s rough fingertips skimming up his side and his middle, not on how close Geralt is, or how focused he is on Jaskier. It feels like a long time that they’re like this, trapped in a fragile bubble, before Geralt pulls back.

“It seems to be healing well,” he says.

“Good,” Jaskier says. “I think…I think I’d like to see it.”

Geralt nods. “Now?” he asks.

“Yes, I think so,” Jaskier says, stealing himself. “Best to get it over with, is it not?”

“You don’t have to look,” Geralt tells him.

“No, I want to know,” Jaskier says, swallowing. Now that he’s thought about it, the curiosity is overwhelming.

“Alright,” Geralt agrees. “Here.” He slides one of his big hands under Jaskier back, settling around his shoulder blades so he can lift him up. It goes easier this time, Jaskier feels well enough to take some of his own weight as Geralt rearranges the pillows behind him to support him.

Jaskier fiddles nervously with the hem of his shirt in his hands. It’s only now that he really notices the shirt that’s he’s been put in. It’s not one of his own that much is obvious. He recognizes pretty easily that it’s actually one of Geralt’s shirt, the black material sturdy but softened through wear and time. It hangs properly around his hips, but is too wide in the neck, one side slipping down, almost off his shoulder, baring a great deal of his chest. Jaskier inhales deeply, hoping that Geralt mistakes it for him readying himself for seeing his wound, and not for what it really is, which is Jaskier trying to see how much the shirt still smells like Geralt. It’s hard to tell, given that Geralt is also right there next to him, and that the whole room has a kind of medicinal smell to it, but he thinks that it does, just a bit. It’s comforting, to be surrounding by Geralt in such a way.

“Do you want me to lift the shirt for you?” Geralt asks. Clearly, Jaskier has hesitated for too long if Geralt is the one breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Jaskier breathes, dropping his own hands.

Geralt’s hands bunch in the shirt and then softly he lifts the fabric up until the hem ends just below Jaskier’s ribs. Jaskier looks down, where his abdomen is framed by Geralt strong arms. He gives himself a moment to admire Geralt’s bare arms where his sleeves are rolled up. But he doesn’t let himself linger for long, can’t have Geralt getting suspicious, so he looks down at his stomach.

It’s not…awful. The skin is definitely colorful, mostly red and angry looking but also with the ugly greens and purples of deep bruising. The slash itself runs from his hip to just past his bellybutton, an ugly, raised line, crossed by dark black stitches. He swallows hard. It’s one of the worst injuries he’s ever seen. Geralt usually heals so quickly that by the time he gets back to Jaskier he barely needs the stitching, and anything worse he’s only ever seen on corpses. This is on Jaskier’s own skin, and it moves when he breathes. Geralt had been right before: it’s not gory or disgusting, but it’s upsetting nevertheless.

“Jaskier?” Geralt prompts.

“Well I suppose it will give me bit of a nice, surprising rugged twist to my look, won’t it?”

“It’ll be hidden under your clothes,” Geralt says, looking confused.

“Not all the time,” Jaskier says, catching Geralt’s eye so he can give him a wink and a grin.

Geralt gets his disproving look back. “Nothing strenuous for a while yet,” he warns.

“Yes, yes, I’m not a fool, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Only trying to inject some humor into the situation.”

“Perhaps you should try being humorous then,” Geralt says.

“Rude!” Jaskier accuses, smacking at Geralt’s arm.

Geralt’s mouth quirks in his version of a smile.

Jaskier smiles helplessly at him. It’s moments like this, where he’s surrounded by Geralt, Geralt with his guard down enough to be a little playful, to be funny in his own way, that make it feel natural to be so in love with him.

“Checking out your bard, Geralt?”

Jaskier flinches from the unexpected voice in the doorway, and then hisses, when the motion jostles his stomach.

Geralt lowers his shirt down gently, evidently not surprised. He probably heard the visitor coming from down the hallway, but he’d still focused on keeping Jaskier comfortable.

Jaskier takes his eyes off of Geralt to look at the stranger in the doorway. It’s another witcher, that much is obvious by his eyes and the way he holds himself. He looks different from Geralt and Eskel, still broader in the shoulders than Jaskier, but more square in the size of his waist. His hair is cropped short, close to his head, and he’s let his facial hair grow in. Like Eskel, he has scars on the right side of his face, one going through the edge of his eye, but they’re neat and straight. Unlike Eskel though, there’s a harshness to his expression instead of warmth.

“Hello,” Jaskier says.

“Lambert, what do you want?” Geralt says, almost snappish.

Lambert just rolls his eyes. “Came to drag your sorry ass out of here. You’ve been in this room for two days now.”

Geralt just grunts.

“I was asking him to stay,” Jaskier says, feeling oddly like he’s gotten Geralt in trouble.

“Geralt hasn’t left your side unless we force him for the whole week,” Lambert says.

“That’s not true,” Geralt objects.

“Trips to take a shit or a walk with Ciri don’t count,” Lambert says. “You can’t say no to her either.”

Geralt glares, but Jaskier finds himself quite touched.

“Go on,” he says gently. “Go see Ciri. I’ll be fine.”

“There’s no need to listen to Lambert,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs. “Go,” he encourages, giving Geralt a little push, one with no force behind it.

“I’ll watch after him,” Lambert says, walking into the room properly.

Geralt continues to frown, but he stands up. “Call out if you need me,” he says. “I’ll hear you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier says.

“Stop acting like a worried mother,” Lambert says.

Geralt, still scowling, knocks his shoulder into Lambert’s as they pass each other.

Jaskier smiles, though Geralt can’t see.

“Boy, you are just as dumb as he is,” Lambert says, once Geralt as left.

“Sorry?”

Lambert gestures at Jaskier’s face. “That look on your face. Geralt’s not that funny. There’s no need to laugh at his jokes or smile at him like a foolish maiden.”

Jaskier frowns. He knows that his affection for Geralt is not returned in the same way, but it’s not like knowing that makes them disappear.

“What, you’re not sensitive about it are you? Embarrassed?” Lambert says.

“No,” Jaskier says defiantly. “But it’s none of _your_ business.”

“Geralt has been intolerable for a week,” Lambert says. “All he does is sit at your side and worry, and if he can’t do that, he storms around the keep until we let him back in the room. I would very much like for it to not be my business, but Geralt is making that impossible.”

“Then why come and bother him?” Jaskier asks, feeling oddly defensive of Geralt.

“Because for some stupid reason I care about the idiot,” Lambert says. “You two need to get your shit together.”

“I only just got my stomach back together,” Jaskier says.

Oddly, that seems to get him a look of approval. “You’re welcome for that, by the way,” Lambert says.

“You helped save me?” Jaskier asks.

Lambert grunts. “Someone had to help hold you down and catch all the bits of gore and blood and shirt that Eskel fished out of you.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “For your help and for sharing your home.”

“We’re not going to just throw you out on the mountain,” Lambert says. “Even if you could stand up or wield a sword. Kaer Morhen used to house a lot more people. There’s plenty of room.”

“I haven’t seen the rest of the keep yet,” Jaskier says. “What’s it like?”

“Shitty,” Lambert says bluntly. “Time and attackers have done a number on the place and Vesemir can’t fix it all up on his own. I don’t know why he bothers trying to fix what he does.”

“Don’t all of you come back here every winter?” Jaskier asks.

“‘All of us’,” Lambert snorts. “Eskel comes every year. Geralt and I usually do. Sometimes Coën shows up. But that’s it. That’s all that’s left of us.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says quietly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lambert says.

Jaskier thinks it does, but he doesn’t say anything. “I’d still like to see it though,” he says instead.

“Geralt will happily carry you around and give you a tour if you’d like,” Lambert scoffs.

“Maybe we’ll wait,” Jaskier says. “Until I can go under my own power.”

“Gonna be a while on those sticks you have for legs,” Lambert says.

“Hey!” Jaskier objects. “My legs are plenty strong. I walk a lot, you know.”

“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Lambert points out.

“Well, maybe I should try standing,” Jaskier says, feeling a surge of adrenaline.

Lambert raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to? Geralt would lose his head, but he’s not here.”

Jaskier nods, the determination suddenly filling him. “Let’s try,” he says.

Lambert stands up and next to the edge of the bed, his arms out for Jaskier to hold on to.

Carefully Jaskier shifts around so he can grab them. Lambert has his sleeves rolled down, but his arms are just as strong and sturdy as Geralt’s. He grips them hard, partially out of nervousness as he works on throwing his legs over the side of his bed. It feels strange, like his legs have gone to sleep, and it takes a while for him to untangle himself from the blankets. Lambert doesn’t move to help.

“There,” Jaskier says, once he feels his feet hit the stone floor. It’s almost shockingly cold on his bare feet after the warm cocoon of the blankets and furs.

“You’re not standing, bard,” Lambert says.

“I’m going to, shut up,” Jaskier grumbles, using Lambert’s arms to leverage himself up. His legs almost do crumble beneath him, and he grips harder at Lambert’s arms to steady himself. But he manages to find his balance again ad stay on his feet. “Now I am,” he says.

“Impressive,” Lambert says, heavy with sarcasm. “You’re only slightly less adept than a toddler.”

Jaskier huffs at him. Even through his annoyance, he knows that Lambert is right. The effort of standing is quickly draining him, and he sits back down on the bed before he can embarrass himself by swooning.

Lambert doesn’t help him with the pillows or tuck him back in like Geralt would have, but Jaskier feels a kind of savage satisfaction when he manages to get himself back in bed.

“Tired now?” Lambert asks, raising his eyebrow again.

“Recovering from being sliced open takes a lot of work for us mere mortals,” Jaskier says.

“Sure,” Lambert says, sitting back now.

Jaskier sags back against the pillows. He _is_ tired. But his mind is also still spinning, brain awake and restless. He longs for his lute, but he doesn’t think he could hold his arms up for long enough to play. Besides, he doesn’t even know where it is. He hopes desperately that they hadn’t left it in the field with the Nilfgaardian corpses. “Are there any books to read?” he asks instead. If his precious lute is forever gone, he doesn’t want to know right now.

“All we have here is witcher tomes,” Lambert says. “Terribly boring. But the princess left this for you.”

From a small stack beside the bed that Jaskier hadn’t noticed before, Lambert draws out a small book. The cover declares it a book of fairytales.

“I didn’t know she had this,” Jaskier says softly.

Lambert shrugs. “No idea where she got it,” he says.

“I’ll be sure to thank her,” Jaskier says, opening the book, promptly getting lost in it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the mend, Jaskier has to figure things out with Geralt.

When Jaskier wakes up the next morning, it’s back to pain. He groans and tries to lie very, very still.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice comes through the darkness beyond Jaskier’s eyelids.

“Ugh,” Jaskier says.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks.

“Hurts,” Jaskier says. His wound feels like it’s burning again and his head is pounding.

“Mmm,” Geralt says, and it’s a good thing Jaskier has had years to learn the difference between Geralt’s different hums, because it’s only through experience that he knows this is a displeased, thinking hum.

The pain is radiating from his stomach, so Jaskier tries to flail just his arm towards Geralt. It seems to work, because the pain continues at its current agonizing level and Geralt catches his hand.

“I could give you more medicine,” Geralt offers.

“Yes, _please_ ,” Jaskier groans.

“Alright,” Geralt says. There’s some shuffling and shifting around, and then Geralt is letting go of Jaskier’s hand to help tilt his head up. “Here, drink.”

Jaskier does, swallowing something thick and cloying. “Ugh,” he says.

"Water,” Geralt grunts, pressing another glass to Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier sips at it gratefully, trying to ease the lingering feeling in his throat. It only slightly works. It does nothing for his head, however, which is getting more and more swimmy the longer Geralt holds him up. “Geralt, my head,” he mumbles.

“Hurts too?” Geralt asks. He sets the cup aside and runs his hand over Jaskier’s brow.

“Mm,” Jaskier says in agreement. “And dizzy.”

“You’re a little cold,” Geralt says.

“What does that mean?” Jaskier asks.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood recently,” Geralt says. “And haven’t eaten much.”

“So you keep telling me,” Jaskier says. It’s an effort.

Geralt makes another thoughtful hum. “We’ve been giving you diluted swallow,” he says slowly.

Jaskier hums to show that he remembers Geralt telling him that, afraid to nod.

“It will help replenish some of the blood you’ve lost,” Geralt continues. “But it’s always a risk.”

Jaskier understands, but the idea of the discomfort disappearing is too alluring. “I’ll take it,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Geralt insists.

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “You’ll be here if anything goes wrong.”

“I will,” Geralt assures him. He rummages around one more time, one hand still propping Jaskier up. “Alright, here. Small sip.”

Jaskier takes a small sip of the potion. It feels like liquid fire, going down his throat, but once it hits his stomach it’s a pleasantly warm wave that washing across his body. “Oh,” he says. It feels like it’s lighting him up from the inside.

“Okay?” Geralt asks.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, surprised at how true it is. He feels warm all over, like his muscles are all warmed up. “Oh, wow.”

Geralt’s mouth quirks.

“Is this what you feel like all the time?” Jaskier asks, wondering. The warmth continues to work it’s way through his body, and it makes him want to _move_. “I think I can sit up,” he tells Geralt, trying to leverage himself up off Geralt’s hands.

“Be careful,” Geralt says, helping Jaskier up anyways.

“I feel better though,” Jaskier says.

“It’s the swallow,” Geralt tells him.

“This feels amazing,” Jaskier says, grinning. “Geralt, I want to take a walk.”

“No,” Geralt says firmly.

“You can come,” Jaskier offers. “I want you to come.”

“We’re not going for a walk,” Geralt insists.

“Why not?” Jaskier asks.

“You’re not ready for a walk.”

“I think I am though,” Jaskier argues. “And I’d know better than you.”

“I’ve taken much more swallow than you,” Geralt counters. “It’s for battle, when we’re out of blood and energy.”

“I’ve not been in battle though,” Jaskier says. “So I can go for a walk.”

“You were in a battle,” Geralt says patiently. “With Nilfgaard. Do you not remember?”

“I remember,” Jaskier says. “I got hit with a sword. But that was a…a week ago, you said. I’m not in battle anymore.”

“You’re still healing,” Geralt says. “You can’t go for a walk yet.”

“I think I _can_ , though,” Jaskier insists.

“The swallow is making you think you have more energy than you do,” Geralt explains. If he were anyone else he would sound patient, maybe just starting to lose his patience. But with his low voice and growl Geralt just sounds vaguely annoyed.

Jaskier frowns at him. “You’re no fun,” he complains. “What do _you_ want to do then?”

“I want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself more.”

“But I don’t hurt right now,” Jaskier explains, trying to sound patient like Geralt was trying to do too.

“Once the swallow wears off you’ll be sore and tired again,” Geralt says.

“How long will that be?” Jaskier asks. “I don’t want that to happen.”

“I don’t know exactly,” Geralt admits. “You’re human, and you’ve been given a small, diluted portion.”

“Can’t you just give me more then?”

“It’s too toxic for you. It’s already started,” Geralt says, running his finger along Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier’s breath stops in his chest. The touch is light, incredibly soft and gentle, tingling on his sensitively warm skin.

“Am I hallucinating?” he asks.

Geralt freezes. “What are you seeing?”

“You’re touching me,” Jaskier explains.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, snatching his hand back.

“No!” Jaskier says. “No, no, I like it. It’s just…you never touch me. I wish you would.”

“Oh,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier reaches out and cups Geralt’s cheek, a mirror of what Geralt had been doing to him. “Touch me more,” he says softly.

Geralt doesn’t move immediately, still for a few, awkward seconds, but then slowly reaches out with his finger again, and strokes down Jaskier’s temple. The finger travels down, from the apple of Jaskier’s cheek to the cut of his jaw. Then up diagonally over the bridge of Jaskier’s nose, ending just at the corner of Jaskier’s eye. Then up through his eyebrow.

“What are you drawing?” Jaskier asks softly, terrified that Geralt will stop.

“Tracing,” Geralt murmurs.

“Tracing what?”

“Your veins.”

“You can see my veins?” Jaskier asks. “Can you always see my veins?”

“The swallow makes them more prominent,” Geralt says. “You’ve seen me after I take potions.”

Jaskier gasps. “Do I look like you do? Can I see?”

“Do you really want to?” Geralt asks. “I know it’s unsettling.”

“ _You’re_ not unsettling,” Jaskier says.

Geralt is quiet for a few moments, looking intently at Jaskier’s face, before he says, “Alright,” and stands up.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asks. “Can I come?”

“Yes, that’s the point,” Geralt says. “There’s a washroom next door with a mirror. I’ll take you to have a look at yourself.”

“We _are_ going for a walk!” Jaskier beams.

“I’ll be carrying you,” Geralt tells him.

Jaskier grins at him. “That’s okay!” he says, raising his arms. “Good solution, Geralt.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes.

Jaskier wiggles a little on the bed.

“Up you get,” Geralt says, sliding one arm easily around Jaskier’s back and the other around his knees.

Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and leans his head in happily. Geralt is warm and his chest is firm. His shirt is open at his neck, so Jaskier even gets to nose at his collarbone a little bit. “You smell good,” he says, the closeness making him honest.

“Thank you,” Geralt says awkwardly.

“You don’t smell like horse right now,” Jaskier continues.

“Haven’t ridden recently,” Geralt mutters, opening the door to the room with his foot, balance never wavering.

“You just smell like you. It’s nice.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs. “What about _me_ , Geralt? You’re supposed to say something nice back.”

“Am I?”

Jaskier huffs. “ _Yes_. It’s polite.”

“When have you ever known me to be polite?” Geralt asks, amusement in his voice.

“Don’t you have anything nice to say to me though?” Jaskier says.

“You’re easy to carry,” Geralt says, opening another door with his foot.

“Fuck you!” Jaskier says, chuckling against the skin of Geralt’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Geralt says again, but he sounds pleased with himself. He shifts the hand he has beneath Jaskier’s knees and a torch lights up in front of them. It casts Jaskier and Geralt in a warm glow and Geralt brings them in front of a mirror mounted on the wall with a nail. It’s not the best mirror, cracked and dirty, and coloring with age, but Jaskier can still see his face well enough in it. And see what’s _on_ it.

“I have a beard!” he exclaims.

Geralt huffs through his nose, like a laugh.

It’s not quite a full beard, but there’s definitely whiskers on the sides of Jaskier’s face and his chin, and above his mouth. “Weird,” Jaskier says, poking at it.

“Would you like to shave?” Geralt asks.

“Can I?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll help you.”

“Hm, okay. Do you like me with a beard, Geralt?”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“You still look like you,” Geralt says. “What, were you waiting for me to say something polite again?”

“No,” Jaskier says, laughing lightly. “Oh! My face.”

“Yes, that’s what we’re looking at.”

“I do look like you!” Jaskier says, feeling weirdly delighted. The veins on his face are dark and protruding, just like Geralt’s get after he takes several potions for a fight. Jaskier likes it, likes how it makes him look like he’s fighting something.

“Not quite as handsome though,” Geralt says blandly.

Jaskier sputters. “Geralt! Was that a joke?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, drawing it out with a little smirk on his face.

Jaskier sniggers.

“Still think I’m no fun?” Geralt asks.

“Fishing for compliments,” Jaskier accuses.

Geralt bounces him, extremely gently. “Let’s get back to bed before it wears off and you start hurting again.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Jaskier pouts. He tucks his head back into Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt carries him back to his room. Geralt’s warmth and smell and the slight rocking as he carries Jaskier makes him feel safe and lulled, and by the time they get back to Jaskier’s room, he’s mostly asleep.

“Jaskier, wake up, just a little,” Geralt says, setting him on the bed.

“Mm?” Jaskier forces his eyes open and sees Geralt, bending over him, with a little bottle in his hand.

“Drink some of this before you sleep,” Geralt says.

“Fine, for you,” Jaskier says, swallowing when Geralt tips the potion into his mouth.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs, his lips quirking.

“Welcome,” Jaskier slurs, already falling asleep.

“Sleep well,” he thinks he hears Geralt whisper in his ear before he drifts off.

* * *

He wakes up feeling better. Groggy and sore but not as in pain as the last time.

As usual, Geralt is by his bedside. “Good morning,” he says.

“Is it actually morning?” Jaskier asks.

“Yes,” Geralt says. “The others are having breakfast. Someone will bring some up when they’re done.”

Jaskier nods. “Help me up?”

Geralt does, pulling Jaskier into a sitting position quickly and efficiently. They’re well practiced at it now, and Jaskier finds himself wishing that it was a bit more awkward so he could enjoy Geralt’s hands on him a bit longer. As it is, Geralt pulls back once Jaskier is propped up. His hands hover briefly, like he’s considering taking Jaskier’s hand in his own, before he decides against it and puts his hands in his own lap.

Abruptly, Jaskier is sick of it. Just last night Geralt had been tactile enough to hold him in his arms, to stroke his face. And now he’s pulling back again. “Why do you do that?” Jaskier demands.

“Do what?”

“Pull away from me!”

“I’m not,” Geralt says with a frown.

Jaskier sighs. “All this aside, I’m not fragile, you know.”

“I know,” Geralt says, still frowning like he’s confused.

Jaskier gestures to Geralt’s hands then mimics him, reaching out before pulling his hands back dramatically.

Geralt rolls his eyes at the theatrics.

“You can touch me,” Jaskier says. “I won’t break.”

Geralt blinks and then goes still, like he’s thinking hard.

Jaskier very carefully doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t push, just waits.

After a long while Geralt “hm”s and reaches out, settling his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. His hands are big enough that it covers most of Jaskier’s shoulder, warm skin against warm skin where Jaskier’s borrowed shirt has slipped, as too-wide in the shoulders as it is.

Jaskier leans into it. “I like it, you know” he says quietly. “You can touch me whenever you want.”

Geralt simply “hm”s again and rubs his thumb softly over where Jaskier’s shoulder meets his neck, trailing it back and forth, a warm rhythm of comfort.

Jaskier closes his eyes and just tries to bask in the attention.

They stay there until a soft knock on the door interrupts them.

“Breakfast?” Eskel asks, sticking his head in.

Jaskier’s stomach rumbles.

Geralt gives him one of his small smiles. “Eat,” he says. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Um, okay,” Jaskier says, already mourning Geralt’s touch.

In the days since Jaskier has been able to sit up, they’ve moved a small table into the room for him to eat on. Eskel drags it over to the side of the bed and sets the tray of food upon it so Jaskier can feed himself. He starts on his oatmeal while Eskel settles in the chair next to the bed. Eskel’s grinning at him.

“What?” Jaskier says.

“Looks like you two have gotten your shit together,” Eskel says.

Jaskier can’t help blushing, even though, “It’s not quite like that.”

Eskel raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“I just wanted him to stop pulling away from me, that’s all.”

“Sure,” Eskel says.

“Shut up,” Jaskier says around a bite of toast.

“You just need to be more obvious with him,” Eskel says.

Jaskier focuses on chewing so he doesn’t choke and embarrass himself. When he’s done he says, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve known Geralt for a long time,” Eskel says. “Longer than anyone except Vesemir. I’ve known him since we were actual kids training here.”

“You knew Geralt as a kid?” Jaskier asks, perking up. “What was he like? Was he-”

Eskel holds up a hand to stem the flow of words, but he’s smiling. “If you be good and listen I’ll tell you an embarrassing story of Geralt as a child,” he bargains.

Jaskier beams and mimes forcing his mouth closed.

“Geralt’s always been like this,” Eskel continues. “A little stupid.”

Jaskier frowns, because he doesn’t think that’s true at all. Geralt, when he wants to, can use his words effectively, get them out of situations, can calm frightened people who are willing to listen. He can spout details about any random monster Jaskier can think of to ask him about – everything from what it eats to how best to kill it – at the drop of a hat. He knows about myths and legends and reads in his spare time. But Jaskier has promised, sort of, to not say anything, even to defend Geralt’s honor.

“He was never good at reacting well to emotions, his _or_ others’, and the mutations and our…training didn’t help.”

Ah. Well. If Eskel is talking about emotional intelligence than Jaskier is inclined to agree with him.

“But he does feel. I know you know that,” Eskel says, his face intense. “He cares. A lot. Maybe more than he should.”

Jaskier nods. It’s one of the many things he likes about Geralt, maybe the thing that makes him love him the most. Geralt cares so much, so deeply, even though he tries to pretend he doesn’t.

“I’m sure whatever he did to discourage you, to make you think that he’s not interested in you, he didn’t mean it.”

“What?” Jaskier blurts, forgetting to be quiet. “We’re not…he never did anything.”

Eskel frowns. “Then why _aren’t_ you ‘quite like that’?” he asks bluntly.

“Because Geralt’s not interested!” Jaskier says, frustrated. It’s been years of blatant flirting and direct propositions and Geralt has never shown the slightest bit of interest.

“But he is,” Eskel insists.

“What makes you say that?” Jaskier asks.

“It’s obvious,” Eskel says unhelpfully. “Why do you think he isn’t?”

“Because he’s never done anything!”

“You know he would never say-”

“No, I said ‘done nothing’ and meant it. I’ve followed him around the continent for two decades. I’ve come onto him with good pick up lines and terrible ones, all with the same result. I’ve complimented him, lightly, emotionally, and sexually. I’ve paraded my ass in front of him, I’ve told him that I like men as well as women. He told me once that you witchers can smell arousal, so I _know_ he’s smelt it on me when I look at him sometimes. I’ve written fucking ballads about how in love with him I am and sang them up and down the continent for everyone to hear. He’s had plenty of chances to make a move, and he never has. So.” Jaskier spreads his arms. “He’s not interested.”

Eskel stares at him, clearly thinking. “I don’t think you’re being obvious enough,” he says eventually.

Jaskier sputters at him. “What part of that was _subtle_?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t being obvious, I said you weren’t being obvious _enough_. For Geralt.”

“What, do you think I should strip down in front of him and say, ‘Oh, Geralt, please stick your cock in my ass’?”

Eskel snorts. “Then he’d think you only want him for sex.”

Jaskier huffs. “You’re not helping,” he says, taking another bite of oatmeal before it gets cold.

“Just, tell him that you like him. As more than just a friend.”

Jaskier sighs into his oatmeal. “I don’t want to scare him away,” he confesses quietly. “I’m glad to be his friend, above all else, I feel privileged to have what we do. If he were to become uncomfortable around me I don’t know how I would handle that.”

Eskel reaches out at that and squeezes Jaskier’s wrist. “He wouldn’t,” he says, in tones of absolute certainty. “Geralt isn’t good at recognizing emotions, even when they’re his own. He doesn’t know how you feel about him, and he might not know how he feels about you, unless you make him face those feelings.”

“What if he finds that he doesn’t like me?” Jaskier asks.

“He likes you,” Eskel says. “Why would he let you follow him around for so long if he didn’t? Annoying and persistent you may be, but Geralt could still easily give you the slip.”

He’s right. Geralt could have left Jaskier at some tavern many times without a single word in the early morning and vanished. But Geralt always let Jaskier catch up, always waited for him, even though without a horse and on human legs Jaskier had to be slowing him down.

Jaskier nods. “I’ll speak to him,” he says.

“Good!” Eskel says, lifting his hand and clapping Jaskier on the shoulder. “You’ll both be happier for it.”

Jaskier continues to eat, mostly as a distraction from the nervousness starting in his gut. Eskel is probably right, he knows, and in any case Geralt isn’t cruel, he wouldn’t treat Jaskier harshly even if he didn’t return his feelings. But still. They’ve been so close lately, Jaskier would hate to mess it up. He’s still musing about it when Geralt himself comes back through the door.

And comes back with…supplies. There’s a pile of clothes tucked under Geralt’s arm, a towel slung over his shoulder, and a bowl of water in one hand and bowl of what looks like shaving cream and a razor under the other. Jaskier suddenly remembers being fascinated by his own face last night, and absentmindedly pokes at the beard starting to form on his face.

Geralt shifts under the stares from Jaskier and Eskel. “You mentioned shaving last night…do you remember?” he says.

Jaskier nods. “Yes,” he says quietly. “So you brought me supplies.”

Geralt nods.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Geralt,” Eskel says significantly.

Geralt looks curiously at him, while Jaskier tries not to scream or blush or throw his bowl.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone, shall I?” Eskel says, standing and taking the tray of food with him. When he bends to grab it, he winks at Jaskier and Jaskier has to try doubly hard not to make any sort of reaction.

He must fail, because when Geralt sits on the side of the bed, not the chair Jaskier notices, he says, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Jaskier says, finding a smile. It’s easy to do, for Geralt. “You brought me shaving tools!”

Geralt nods. “And fresh clothes. I thought you might like to change.”

“Yes, please,” Jaskier says fervently. His current clothes smell like sweat and medicine and staleness. Any remnants of Geralt himself on the shirt are long gone.

Geralt puts the bowls on the table and the clothes on the bed. “Do you think you can lift your arms?” he asks. “Might as well take this shift off.”

Jaskier definitely forgets to breathe then, and he lifts his arms so Geralt can slide his hands up under his borrowed shirt and pull it off. He shivers a bit, and only partially from the constant draft.

“Cold?” Geralt asks.

“It’s fine,” Jaskier says. He’s actually not cold, not at all, but instead burning hot, just underneath his skin. It’s not the fever again, but just Geralt himself, the full force of his attention being focused on Jaskier, on Jaskier’s bare chest. He desperately hopes that his body is still too exhausted to get turned on.

“Okay,” Geralt says, seemingly accepting that and putting the towel over Jaskier’s shoulders. He stands then, arranging the table so he has room to stand right at Jaskier’s neck. “Tilt your head back,” he murmurs softly, brushing his fingers against the underside of Jaskier’s jaw.

Jaskier does, following the touch, letting his eyes slip closed.

He hears the soft clatter of Geralt picking up the bowl of foam and then he feels the brush on his cheeks. The foam is light and pleasant, and Geralt lathers it on with sure strokes. It’s soothing, and when Geralt shifts again, bringing one arm around to hold Jaskier’s head still and the other to bring a blade to his throat, Jaskier feels no fear. In fact, he feels himself drifting, lulled by the repetitive motions of Geralt’s hand, the soft scrape of the razor, Geralt’s gentle touch tilting his head where he needs it.

When Geralt is done he washes Jaskier’s face with a soft towel and the warm water before splashing something cool and calming on it.

“Done,” he proclaims.

Jaskier lets his eyes open. “Thank you,” he says lazily, petting his own face. He’s smooth cheeked again, and his skin feels soft, like Geralt had taken more care with Jaskier than he does with himself.

Geralt hums softly in response and Jaskier lets himself list until he’s leaning on Geralt’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, sounding amused.

“Sleepy. Lazy,” Jaskier replies.

Geralt gives a low sound that’s almost like a laugh. “You can sleep after you change your clothes,” he says.

“Help me,” Jaskier says, flailing his arms up.

Geralt catches them easily, his grip gentle. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his tone is gentle too.

“That I am,” Jaskier agrees.

Geralt gives another tiny laugh behind him as he takes the towel off of Jaskier’s shoulders and sets it on the table, pushing the whole thing aside.

Jaskier reaches for the bundle of clothes, unveiling another black tunic that he’s certain is Geralt’s, a pair of brown breeches that look similar to what Geralt has been wearing around Kaer Morhen yet wildly different from anything Jaskier has seen him wear on the road. There’s smallclothes too, and everything looks freshly washed, which Jaskier considers a bit of a shame as he pulls the tunic on and doesn’t smell Geralt at all. Everything fits decently, other than the tunic being too wide in the shoulder still, but Jaskier would rather have something of Geralt’s that’s ill-fitting than something that fits yet has no connection to Geralt.

He looks up while he’s pulling the breeches over his legs, and sees Geralt watching him.

Jaskier winks at him and Geralt goes still in the way he does when he’s caught off guard.

“Enjoying the show?” Jaskier asks flirtatiously. He can feel it building beneath his breast. This is the perfect build for talking like Eskel had recommended, and Jaskier finds now that he _wants_ it.

“Only you could make getting dressed such a production,” Geralt says.

Jaskier grins. He’s playing along.

“It’s only entertaining if you’re interested in the subject,” he says.

Geralt looks wrongfooted for a split second, before he recovers and says, “You think highly of yourself.”

“Am I wrong?” Jaskier asks. “Do you not find me interesting?” He feels vulnerable asking it.

“And you accused me of fishing for compliments last night,” Geralt says.

Jaskier grins. “So it _is_ a compliment then.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Compliments are for polite society.”

“Oh, but you must have some opinion of me,” Jaskier says. He has his pants on now, so he flings his leg out to poke at Geralt’s leg.

Geralt doesn’t even blink, just stoops to grab it and put it back on the bed. The bed that he also sits down on.

“Come on,” Jaskier urges.

Geralt looks him in the eyes, and freezes. His face goes blank like it does when he’s feeling too much and he doesn’t know how to process it.

Jaskier decides to keep pushing though and slides closer to him. “Geralt,” he says.

“I-” Geralt says, but then he stops, swallowing.

It’s all supremely awkward but at the same time the most electric that Jaskier as felt in his entire life. He’s close enough to Geralt to see his chest rising and falling with his breaths, close enough to smell him, close enough that he finds himself breathing in time with Geralt.

Jaskier feels like he can’t look enough. Can’t get his fill of looking at Geralt’s stubble spilling onto the top of his throat, the dip of his collar bone, the patch of chest hair revealed by his unbuttoned shirt. His eyes rake back up Geralt’s throat, up to his mouth, where his gaze gets stuck again. “What were we talking about?” he asks, whispering.

“You,” Geralt says, equally quietly in his deep rumble. Jaskier is fascinated with the way his lips form the word.

“Me,” Jaskier echoes. They’re even closer now, close enough that Jaskier could count Geralt’s eyelashes if he wanted to.

They haven’t really talked, but Geralt has always been a man of action, so Jaskier leans forward more, trying to close the gap.

And nearly faceplants because Geralt has abruptly pulled back, standing by the edge of the bed.

“Geralt?” Jaskier calls, feeling confused, but Geralt is already gone, out the door and down the hall.

“Fuck.”

* * *

After that, Geralt starts avoiding him. It’s not hard, with Jaskier largely stuck in bed. Ciri informs him reliably that Geralt has been stepping up their training, and she’s got the bruises from falls and the impact of the practice swords to prove it, which she shows off to Jaskier with something like pride. Every time Lambert is designated as Jaskier’s babysitter, he complains about the needed repairs on the training dummies, and the intensity of the spars Geralt seems to be challenging everyone to. Eskel looks at Jaskier with something sad in his expression, like he knows what happened and doesn’t want to meddle anymore. Vesemir is still calm and collected, soothing, though he does call Geralt a fool more than once.

For the first few days it’s awful. Jaskier has gotten so used to Geralt being a constant presence at his side, that it’s strange to have one of the other witchers filling that void. He misses Geralt’s touch, his voice, his smell.

But after a few days of allowing himself to wallow, Jaskier finds himself getting mad. It’s all well and good for Geralt to run away while Jaskier can’t follow him, but it leaves Jaskier feeling stuck. And without any other outlets, he starts snapping at the other witchers.

“But where _is_ he?” he demands of Lambert, for probably the fifth time.

“Fuck if I know, probably training or brooding in one of the cells. The point is he isn’t here, and it’s making you insufferable.”

“Well, you’re rude, and you’ve no reason to be,” Jaskier sniffs.

“The two of you are driving me mad,” Lambert says bluntly. “Just kiss and make up, already.”

“Well I can’t do that if Geralt never comes to me, can I?”

Lambert audibly sighs. “Someone else has got to be your babysitter, because I can’t do this.”

“You could help me!”

“I don’t _want_ to do this,” Lambert corrects. “You’re both adults, handle your shit yourself.”

“I can’t get out of bed!”

“Try harder!”

Jaskier is almost motivated to spring out of bed out of sheer spite, but a knock on the door frame stops him.

It’s Ciri, book in her hand, looking in on them with a smile on her face that is trying for innocent and missing its mark considerably.

“Hello, Ciri,” Jaskier says.

“Good, someone else to watch you,” Lambert says, making to stomp out.

Ciri still stands in the doorway though, blocking the exit. “You were yelling about Geralt,” she says. She looks around Lambert to Jaskier, but doesn’t move. “He’s been extra grumpy lately too. What happened?”

“A…a misunderstanding,” Jaskier says. Because it wasn’t a fight, it wasn’t anything, except an almost-kiss that’s still confusing. “I would talk to him, but I haven’t seen him since,” he adds, glaring at Lambert.

Lambert glares right back.

Ciri, however, looks thoughtful. “Do you mean it?” she asks. “That you’ll talk?”

Jaskier nods. “Of course.”

“Good. Then I’ll bring him to you,” Ciri says decisively. “Come, I need your help,” she says to Lambert, dragging him away.

And just like that, for the first time in more than a week, Jaskier is left all alone.

It feels strange not to have another presence in the room, not to be aware of the rhythm of someone else’s breathing, not seeing another body out of the corner of his eye.

It makes him fidgety. He has no idea what Ciri is planning, but he hopes she puts it into action quickly.

She does.

Less than half an hour later there’s the sound of a scuffle outside the door and Geralt’s voice cutting through clearly, “Ciri, what are you doing, don’t-” and then a loud grunt as Lambert shoves him through the door.

“Make up with your boyfriend before I kill you both!” Lambert shouts as he slams the door shut.

Geralt huffs and kicks the door in a fit of what Jaskier thinks is a witcher’s kind of melodrama. He’s sprawled artlessly on the ground in front of the door, still on the shoulder he’d landed on. A fall like that would have bruised Jaskier’s shoulder for days, but Geralt looks like it’s not even bothering him.

“Go fuck yourself, Lambert!” he shouts through the door.

“This was Ciri’s plan you know,” Jaskier says idly, since Geralt seems determined to ignore him.

Geralt does whip his head around to look at him, and then quickly looks at the ground.

“I told her I wanted to talk to you,” Jaskier continues.

“Then talk,” Geralt growls.

“Not like this,” Jaskier says softly. Not with several feet between them, not with Geralt splayed on cold stone, not with Geralt so closed off.

“Then how?” Geralt asks.

“Come here,” Jaskier says, keeping his voice soft. He’s never entirely sure what’s going on in Geralt’s head, but the way that Geralt is curled in makes Jaskier think that he’s trying to protect himself. “Please?”

Geralt huffs and stays still for a few seconds, before he stands with an easy grace and crosses to the bed. He visibly hesitates when he gets close, eyes darting to the chair on the other side.

Jaskier pats the mattress in invitation.

Geralt hesitates again, but then sits. Briefly he makes eye contact with Jaskier, before flicking them away to the blanket.

Jaskier smiles at him, even though Geralt can’t see it anymore. “Thank you,” he says.

“For what?” Geralt asks. He looks up again briefly, a mystified look on his face, before he catches himself and looks back down.

“I know you don’t like talking,” Jaskier says. “But I need to, sometimes. And I have to tell you something.” He’s incredibly nervous, plucking anxiously at the blanket.

Geralt hums to show that he’s listening, but he continues to stare at the blanket.

“The other day,” Jaskier starts.

Geralt goes tense as a bow, which is impressive, as Jaskier had thought him tense previously.

“I wanted to kiss you,” Jaskier admits. “And it’s not the first time I’ve wanted to kiss you either. I want to quite a lot, since I’m being honest. And if you don’t feel the same way towards me, then that’s okay,” he rushes to assure. “You are my friend, Geralt, and I treasure that. If you don’t want me to I’ll never make a move on you or do anything you don’t want me to.” He inhales sharply, running out of air during his ramble. Geralt at least isn’t staring at the blanket any longer, but now he’s staring at Jaskier, and Jaskier isn’t sure if that’s actually any better. “Um,” he says in the silence.

“That day,” Geralt says brusquely, almost awkward. “I, uh, I wanted to kiss you as well.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says quietly. “I thought you might have, and well, I have to say I did hope-”

“It was not the first time,” Geralt continues, cutting across Jaskier’s nervous ranting.

“Oh,” Jaskier says again. “And what about now? Do you…do you want to kiss me now?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, shifting forward.

Jaskier leans forward too, and his heart stops as they hover there, inches between them. Then he swallows his nervousness down, tilts his head, and presses his lips to Geralt’s.

They’re chapped, because Geralt likes to run around in the biting winter wind without a care. The start of Geralt’s beard scratches against Jaskier’s skin, because apparently Geralt hadn’t bothered shaving when he was busy brooding. Jaskier likes it, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. Geralt responds and his mouth is hot and wet and Jaskier shivers when their tongues touch. He lifts his hands from the bedspread and rests one on Geralt’s shoulder, winding his fingers into the ends of his hair. The other he rests on Geralt’s thigh, thumb rubbing along the crease where his leg joins his hip.

Geralt’s hands come up as well, lifting to cup one of Jaskier’s cheeks, the other settling on Jaskier’s waist. His hands radiate warmth and Jaskier sways, trying to press into both directions at once and at the same time shift forward and get in Geralt’s lap. The blanket impedes his progress, and Geralt pulls back so he can steady Jaskier with both hands around his waist.

Jaskier grins at him.

Geralt isn’t blushing, but his face has more color in it than normal, his lips red in a well-kissed way, his eyes large.

“Come closer,” Jaskier tells him, spreading his legs farther apart so Geralt and move in between them.

Geralt shifts closer and leans forward to take Jaskier’s mouth again. Jaskier meets him with his mouth open, determined to impress Geralt. He doesn’t get much of a chance though, before the door is creaking open.

Geralt stops kissing him, turning to look.

Predictably, Ciri and Lambert are peering through the open door.

“Finally,” Lambert says, as Ciri gives them a big grin and a thumbs up.

Jaskier can’t help laughing. “Could we have some time alone please?” he asks.

“You owe us!” Lambert calls, allowing Ciri to push him with one hand as she closes the door with the other.

Jaskier snorts. “Well,” he says.

“Well,” Geralt echoes.

“I am glad you kissed me,” Jaskier says.

“I’m glad you kissed me as well,” Geralt returns.

Jaskier grins. “Wanna kiss me again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Posting this for you all was a joy. I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I did!


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